


Vineyards In Bloom

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Family Drama, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Getting to Know Each Other, Hopeful Ending, Married Life, Motherhood, No Robert's Rebellion, Politics, Power Struggle, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Refernce to Songs of Songs, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-06 00:57:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 64,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11025216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: She weds for her own purposes, stays for his and discovers for neither.A drop of wolf blood is a dangerous thing, especially when spilled for it calls for each of its brethren a thousand like spoils from the enemy. Lyanna Stark has always heeded the call of the wolf blood. She will not stop. Perhaps she cannot stop. Suffice to say that she is willing to do whatever it takes for the proper rest of her kith and kin.AU! Years of waiting pay off for a she-wolf when her rage may finally find target among sea-creatures.





	1. Act I.

**ACT I.**

_Take us the foxes, the little foxes, [...]_

 

 

 

 

 

A swirl of red hues played across the cavernous dome stretching endlessly above. The specks, with their high colouring and cheerless song, continued to hold Lyanna’s attention as she stretched her legs out even further, the hem of her skirts dragging through the thin layer of snow only to dig into the mud coverlet which followed it. She supressed a sigh and brought her hand together over the stiff bodice of the dress. She should have asked to have it laced a lot looser. It made for a truly uncomfortable experience. Her eyes darted back to the foliage. One of the leaves dangled daringly close to the edge of the water, as if asking to be plucked and plunged into the pit.

Her lips parted. Lyanna was counting. Wondering if she could dart over there quickly enough for her fingers to take hold and tug the leaf free.

“What are you doing, girl?” the sharp voice of her grandmother snapped her out of her trance. Starting, she instinctively turned towards the source of the noise. “We are not here to dream. Assume proper position and come pray.” The unhappy moue brought back all manner of memories, particularly of being chased around the nursery I hopes of having one sharp object or another removed from her possession.

“Yes, my lady,” she answered tersely. Under the hard scrutiny of her paternal grandmother, currently the only elder left to supervise them, little ones, she braced herself for what would follow. Lyanna rose, slow and careful in her movement, so as to avoid tearing the delicate flounces. That would only bring her more grief.

Grandmother Marna’s expression soured even further. “Look what you’ve done. Do you think coin for cloth grows on trees?” She glowered. Unfortunately, her grandmother was having none of it. “Ungrateful girl. Why do you insist upon being a vulgar wretch? Do you not understand it will not serve you at all down the line?”

She refused to answer as was always the case when accusations were hurled her way. Instead, she knelt at her grandmother’s side. The old woman shook her head. “What would your dear departed mother say, to see you thusly? The poor woman is turning in her grave.”

“You know nothing about my mother,” she returned with impertinence. She was game as far as insulting her went. But her mother was another issue entirely. “And you most certainly know not what she would say. My mother loved me.”

“No doubt she did. You were a clever little girl, quick and good. That was the girl she loved.” Lyanna scowled. “I fear that is not an argument. Your mother expressly asked that you fall into my care.”

“If grandmother Arya died,” she retorted.

Nonplussed, her grandmother continued as though Lyanna’s outburst had not even registered on her ears. “As such, it falls to me to teach you the ways of a lady. And learn you shall. If I have to tie you to a chair.”

The argument would drag on and on if she vocally opposed. Lyanna allowed her chin to fall into her chest and closed her eyes, hoping that might quell the woman’s desire to speak. As expected, her grandmother returned to beseeching the gods. Lyanna followed the ruse for a few minutes.

Praying to the gods was useless. Her knees were starting to hurt. She had been kneeling before the tree every single day since her return to Winterfell, day after day, moon turn after moon turn and year after year. Had the gods heard her, they would have answered. Bitterly, she threw a glare at the carved face staring incessantly back at her. The red eyes regarded her without a shred of interest. The dispassion prompted her contempt. Just like an uncaring child with a doll to old and torn to serve any purpose, so had these supposedly benevolent guardians seen fit to treat her. She owed them nothing, not her mind and certainly not her heart.

Engaging in a staring contest with the souses wood was pointless. She knew that much. Nevertheless, pinned to her spot, she remained staring, shouting profanities in her mind. It was all she could do not to rise and kick the old scarred bark.

Her grandmother continued with the usual murmurs, might be in hopes that she would join. Lyanna patently refused to indulge her. While not entirely insensitive to the nature of the woman’s concern, she could not and would not accept solace from an inconstant power, be it the gods themselves. On the other hand, her grandmother was not entirely looking to drive her insane. There was method to her insistence. She could recognise as much for the simple fact that relish it or not, she was approaching the age where her brother would find that keeping a sister was more bother than reward and she might summarily find herself packed off to live with such a thing they called man. Obviously her own brother was a man, but he was not just that. What she spoke of was that creature her grandmother had endless supplies of warning about. Likely as not, it was a dangerous beast her brother considered giving her away to.

With her luck the particular beast he had in mind was one of his carousing friends. How she loathed those young fops. Why was it that there was not a single worthy man of respect among the bunch? Lyanna would have gladly declared her intention to jump off the Wall rather than join her destiny to the likes of Lord Arryn’s heir. Stupid children with nothing on their mind other than making merry. She vowed not a single serious matter passed their consideration.

And Ned was no better, forever trying to convince that she ought to trust Brandon’s judgment. Easy for him to say. Brandon was not yet thinking of sacrificing him. Her petulance followed its usual course, trickling into glares and smothered imprecations.  Such passed her time until grandmother decided they had had quite enough of the gods for one day.

The old woman rose to her feet, surprisingly agile for someone her age. Even sitting in the damp coolness of winter’s beginning, she was spry as ever. If only her other grandmother might have lived, she would have at least had a kind soul. This one was about as kind as the thorny vines imprisoning her winter roses. “Well, what is taking you, child?”

She followed the other’s example with exaggerated slowness. Alas, mayhap guessing at the aim, her grandmother simply saw to shaking dirt and dust from her skirts with a firm hand. “Come here,” she ordered, tugging on Lyanna’s arm. Unable to oppose, she fell in line, allowing for her own skirts to be smoothed over and cleaned to the best of the matron’s abilities. “I understand your reluctance.” Lyanna said nothing to that. Her back was to Marna and she could not appropriately show her disbelief. “I know you believe I do not, but I was once your age. And indeed, we are more alike that you think.”

She could not help a sound of distress at the notion. She was nothing like this bitter, blind and beastly woman. She would never force any granddaughter of her own into a vow of silence and she would most certainly not have the temerity to suggest marriage might help with a high-strung temperament. More importantly she would never dismiss honest testimony as the mere ramblings of a feverish mind. Lyanna turned on the older woman. “I am nothing like you. Not even a little.” She was like her mother, and grandmother Arya, if anything.

The dowager smiled, the sort of indulgent smile one gave a misbehaving young imp. Her teeth clamped tightly, a tick manifesting in her jaw. “If that will help your mood, granddaughter.” Anger boiled. “Since you have so thoroughly ruined this one, I suggest changing it for a different one,” she spoke, pointing an accusing finger to the dishevelled kirtle which Lyanna experienced not even a twinge of guilt over. She had not insisted they go a-begging the gods’ favour on a day that was sure to be mud-filled. “Your brother will not appreciate an exhibition of your part.” The reminder came with a grab for her shoulder.

Biting into her lower lip, Lyanna forced herself into a calmer frame of mind. She would not allow Brandon’s plans to upset her. If it came to that, she would frighten the suitors away herself. A whisper here and there and they would run for the hills. Lyanna knew all about young boys. She was closely acquainted with several. Indeed, she would simply work around whatever obstacles faced her.

Led to her chambers, Lyanna pretended meekness for the benefit of a few young pages running amok in her courtyard. Brandon would do better to keep them in check. But then she supposed juggling ale and responsibility was not an easy thing. Grandmother chided the boys, sending them off with a light scowl. Luckily for them, she reserved her full-fledged glare for her and her only. “It is hardly fair that they are allowed only a second-tier demonstration from you, my lady,” she noted daringly once they were out of earshot.

“They are hardly worth the effort.” She smiled subtly, trying to hide it from the older woman. “You, on the other hand, could drive a saint to exasperation.” They climbed the stairs, arms linked. Her grandmother stopped for nothing and no one. She simply made her way through passing servants and guests alike, acknowledging those who needed it with a regal nod of the head. One would think she had spent her days at court putting those ,silly creatures down and out of their misery. Lyanna almost felt the need to ask if she’d been weaned with the Queen, absurd as that was. Her grandmother was ancient. The Queen had to be a few decades her junior.

Finally brought to her quarters, Lyanna was pushed through the door none too gently into the awaiting arms of Marsia Locke. The girl smiled her greeting, flushed face alerting Lyanna to the fact that her cold head was not yet a thing of the past. “What are you doing out of bed?” grandmother demanded.

“I was just–“ The explanation was cut short when the old curmudgeon found her tyrannical nature beyond a thin layer of worry. She ordered Marsia back to bed, calling for Thyme. The young servant girl scrambled out of the adjacent chamber, carrying in her arms a long, dark kirtle. Lyanna frowned. It had been her mother’s. And she had placed it at the bottom of the coffer in which she kept her kirtles.

“Where is that sister of yours?” The question obviously startled Thyme. She stammered out a reply and bobbed apologetic curtsies. “Never you mind. She’ll not be rid of me so easily, that Tansy. Running off to the stables, no doubt.” Lyanna dearly hoped Tansy had an explanation prepared for when grandmother found her. “Thyme,” she snapped, “bring out the hot irons. Marsia, make yourself comfortable in bed. Your presence will not be required this evening.”

“But, grandmother, Lyanna–“ This too was cut off in time for her grandmother to enlighten poor Marsia upon what it was that she would do. Lyanna gave her companion an appreciative smile. She had done her best. Marsia was simply not confrontational, her grandmother, thus, had an easy time of being the poor thing to her will.

“It would be bad form to be entirely without female company. Unless you suggest I beg the boon of one of my brother’s friends,” she said. “I personally think Ethan Glover would look the part were we to give him a large enough dress.”

Marsia fell into a snicker. Ethan Glover was a nice enough boy, but, good gods, did he look more a girl than Lyanna. Even with his impressive height. “Enough of you two.” She pointed towards Thyme. “That one will accompany you.”

Thyme stammered out a protest this time. Not that it helped. Her grandmother turned a glare upon the servant girl. “I don’t expect you to make conversation, girl. Just keep your mistress company.” Lyanna winced. Tansy would have gratefully stood up to the challenge. Her younger twin, though, was far less likely to succeed. If only because she would try to plaster herself to the wall and try to disappear between the cracks. That would favour Lyanna, of course, who by comparison would likely seem outgoing and genuinely interested in conversation. She dearly hoped that somehow she would not end up thought of as charming.

Finding herself firmly caught in the trap, Thyme slinked away, presumably to get her hands on a pair of hot irons. Lyanna sat down in her customary chair and shooed Marsia to the bed. Her grandmother had only this to say, “Do not even think to plan some shenanigans. I will know and I will be certain to put an end to it.”

“Why are you warning me then, grandmother?” Lyanna asked innocently. “If you already know what I plan, then surely it would be more productive to try taking me by surprise and foiling whatever I have in mind rather than warning me and giving me a chance to change anything.”

“That smart mouth of yours will surely get you in trouble,” the woman warned, leaving her with a wag of the finger and a cluck of the tongue. Lyanna took it with the same grain of mellow annoyance she always summoned whenever her elders made a point of condescending to her.

Marsia sighed from her perch atop the furs. “One of these days she will lose her patience.”

“And strike me with her cane? I doubt it. ‘Tis not merely for show.” Her kin shrugged softly. Marsia had taken a shine to Thyme for a reason. They were birds of a feather and grandmother would play the both of them as a fiddle.

 Thyme returned with her sister in tow. A thoroughly shamed Tansy bowed her head in abject remorse. Unable to tell how much of it was truth and how much pretence, Lyanna simply had her help with the hot irons. “Careful how long you hold it,” she warned, not relishing the possibility that she would show herself at her brother’s table with singed hair. Marsia sighed from behind her as Lyanna adjusted the looking glass so she might see herself and over her shoulder she even caught a glimpse of her companion. “Forlorn?”

“How much you shall never know,” Marsia quoth dramatically. She arched an eyebrow at the look thrown her way. “I am most desolate. To think that I am to miss the grand supper. Bring me back some lemon cakes if you can manage it. ‘Tis the only joy I can derive under such circumstances.”

“Very well. I will risk my life and good name in this endeavour,” she answered in kind, allowing Thyme to tug at her hair as her sister parted the curtain into thick strips.

“Not too much, I hope.” Turning on her side so she might get a pillow under her head, Marsia watched the proceedings with attention. “Whom shall you give your favour to?”

“I haven’t decided. Brandon assures me he will make the choice for me if I tarry, which you can imagine has set me to ease.” The girl snorted, Tansy followed her example. Lyanna’s eyes narrowed. “He seems to favour Lord Arryn’s heir. But Ned has presented him with the possibility of Robert Baratheon.”

“Certainly, I imagine these propositions are very respectable,” Marsia claimed lightly, twisting her fingers around a string running from an embroidered flower. “Have you considered writing to Aunt Branda? She could delay whatever plans my lord has in this regard.”

“’Tis not a delay I am looking for.” The other nodded. Lyanna took her eyes off of the reflection staring at her. She allowed her eyes to fall to her lap. A smudge on the light material troubled her for a few moments. She tried brushing it off, but apparently dried mud could only be scarped off of skin, not so much off of cloth. “I do hope though that my brother has promised to at least try and allow me a choice.”

“He will. Brandon is not quite the ogre you make him out to be.” Not entirely invalid a view. High-handed though he was, she did recognise he tried to steer them in what he believed was the best direction. “Rathe-ripe rapscallion, he is frustrating I should think, but you must allow that Maester Walys has given valuable advice and he follows brilliantly.”

“Maester Walys believes the world in a place of goodness.” She scoffed at the notion. “My brother is equally unthinking. Our father, may the gods rest him, was a strong character; but he had years and years to come up with such a structure. Our good master merely stoked his ambitions; I fear Brandon is having a lot more than mere ambition engaged.”

Marsia nodded and turned on her back. “You are entirely too harsh upon the poor man. I cannot say I am surprised.”

They maintained a light stream of chatter, jumping from one subject to another. Marsia for all she suffered the effects of a head cold showed little for it and acted for all the world as though she’d be able to come down. But then some might take exception to having their soup sneezed near. Tansy and Thyme were done with their work as well, allowing the newly curled strands to fall down her back. She admired the result and fingered one of the strands which had ended over her shoulder. “Well, that ought to do it. What think you, Marsia?”

“You’ve my admiration. But I shall say no more than that.” She laughed. The words were more than enough. She took it for what it was and rose from her seat, spreading her arms in an attempt to help Thyme with the unlacing which remained to be done. Thyme tugged on the laces while Tansy straightened the kirtle which had been laid out.

The preparations continued, with Lyanna garbed appropriately and Thyme enduring her sister’s poking and prodding, seeming somewhat ashamed by the attention lavished upon her. For her part, Lyanna made no move to help and Marsia sent the girl a commiserating look. “You will take care of the poor hare, won’t you? Snakes run amok your brother’s gardens.”

“A wolf keeping guard over sheep?” A dry look was levelled her way. “Of course I shall. I can hardly permit the poor girl come to some unpleasant situation solely because my grandmother did not have the fortitude to foresee I shall need more than one companion.”  

 “Pythoness she is not.” Lyanna considered the claim.

“She could have fooled me.” At times she genuinely did think her grandmother capable of telling one’s morrows. Fortunately, she suspected it had to do with intuition based on observation, not with some sort of sorcery. Although sorcery would have been more entertaining and potentially frightening to her suitors. A witch for a wife was not something men desires, as far as she’d been told.

Once everything was in order, Lyanna left Tansy with a stern order to look after Marsia, to which the infirm replied with a snort. She did not protest though when Tansy walked closer to the bed, leaning over in an attempt to fuss over her charge.

Thyme simply followed Lyanna down the corridor until they reached the top of the stairs. “Link your arm through mine,” she instructed, moving to accomplish as much. It would be much more expedient, she considered, to simply allow the poor little sprite to follow her about. But then she wanted a shield as much as she wanted a companion.

The main hall was decked in all sorts of fandangles and embellishments. All of which, her grandmother would undoubtedly point out later, cost a lot of coin. Coin which her brother seemed to have no trouble throwing on such shallow things. Tansy took in the scene with wonder. There was an almost reverent bent to her movements, as though she feared any sudden step on her part would break whatever spell had been cast upon her.

Well-used to entertainments, Lyanna somehow found the wherewithal to avoid gawping. Some of Brandon’s close companions noted her arrival before her brother. Ser Ethan Glover, with all his height, moved particularly fats to secure a position at her side. “My lady, your brother was starting to worry you would never come down.”

“I doubt Brandon even noticed,” she replied dryly, nevertheless taking the proffered arm and encouraging Thyme to take the other; the girl refused with a shake of the head, showing signs of a spine for once. “I hope we shall not inconvenience you.” Her deliberate use of the plural form seemed to awaken the man to the fact that she was not alone. He inclined his head towards the servant girl and hesitantly offered the use of his other arm to her.

“Indeed not; why should I object to the presence of two perfectly lovely creatures such as you? I do believe I shall be the envy of every man present.” Brandon notwithstanding, she suspected he might, if only for the fact that they had gathered to plague her with proposals of marriage and whatnot.  

Her brother took her arrival with just a smidge of suspicion. Their eyes met and held. She could hear the warning ringing in her ears so loud was his stare. “Sister, come, sit with me for a few moments.” Knowing a temporary dismissal when they heard one, Brandon’s merry band dispersed. Lyanna hoped they found some strong wine to drown themselves into. Thyme stood aside, but did not wonder off too far. As such, it was as near to being private as the two of them would be able to get without leaving the hall.

“I have had a letter. It seems we are to entertain lofty guests. I hope you will do your best to make me proud once you hear who we are to have.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Grandmother pressed the quill between her thumb and forefinger. The tip was raised forehead level as the matron paused in her writing. For a moment Lyanna thought she would play bullseye to the sharp end of the feathered writing instrument. “Have you considered using your head?” she asked with a deep-seated contempt which brought surprise to her face. “Did I teach you nothing?”

Lyanna straightened her back. “I thought my brother wanted to seal some sort of deal with a house he already has in his sphere of influence.”

“Why would he have told you what the case was, were he set against it? Think, girl. No one else will do it for you.” Lyanna had been thinking. She had come to her specifically because she had thought about it. The quill found its way upon the surface of the table. “I hate to be the one pointing out the obvious,” Lyanna snorted; the old witch was glad, “but if indeed you wish to have gains, your aim must be high.”

“Is this an endorsement?”

“Not at all. It is a piece of advice.” Marna Locke stood to her feet. “You have a duty to this house. So far you have benefited from its care. Might be ‘tis time pay some of it back. If you should refuse, I will certainly not pursue the matter any further. Your brother, however, might wish to ease the burden of our current state and even you must admit a bride price is a most expedient solution.”

“Poor man; if only he had more than one sister. He would never need worry over coin again.” Her grimace pleased grandmother none. “I carry no blame for his deed or lack thereof.”

“Certainly not, but you will, nevertheless, be part of the aftermath. Unless, of course you choose to wed. Why do you think women wed, child?” She opened her mouth to reason, but Marna Locke cut her off with a dismissive wave of the hand. “No doubt you will give me some claptrap about ardour and love.”

“I am not that much of a fool,” Lyanna spoke softly. She lowered herself in an available chair. “But I will not wed simply to be free of Brandon’s influence. Were I to take one of his friends, it would be no different from allowing myself to live the rest of my existence under his thumb. And no matter how well he means, that is unconscionable.”

Marna nodded. She did not interrupt a second time though, might be sensing that Lyanna had just been warming herself. “I need someone far removed from his influence. Someone who will not be cowed by any demands, moreover, he should have two thoughts to rub together at the very least. I do not think my demands too high.”

“Then it seems the gods have granted your request.“ Her eyes narrowed; the gods were likely laughing in their beards about her predicament. That aside, she did not believe for a moment those above experienced a twinge of emotion in regards to the hardships of those below them. Her grandmother, on the other hand, was not so pessimistic in her approach. “In this life, you may depend only on yourself entirely. Others will come and go, emboldened by interests or held back by gain. It falls to you to sieve through smiles and frowns and pick and choose your allies. One day, I will be gone. Your brother will have a family of his own. The other two shall as well. You cannot remain dependent on them, like a rock dragging them down. ‘Tis up to you whether you take the risk and make a choice for yourself, or should you allow Brandon the chance, he will do as he thinks best.”

“What if I choose wrong?” Might be that was the crux of the matter. When father had lived, she rebelled against the small things, brushing rules off and getting into scrapes. Once Brandon assumed responsibility, she went against his dictates on a slightly larger scale. But she had never truly defied him. Not in any way that mattered. “I am not nearly as well-travelled as my brothers. It does put me at a disadvantage.”

“Experience does not help when one’s eyes were closed all the way through,” the old woman huffed. It was as close an accusation she would ever level at her dear grandson’s head. “In order to make you feel his inferior, Brandon needs your consent first.”

Flushing, Lyanna quickly masked a frown. “But what if I am wrong?”

“Then you will live with the results. ‘Tis better, in my experience, to regret having done something, not having not done it. Upon this matter, I believe you have heard enough. Should you have further need of me, you know where I am.”

And just like that, she was dismissed. The brusque manner might have disheartened her, had she been under the impression that grandmother truly was on her side. As matters stood, she excused herself, making her way without.

A lone servant boy passed through. Lyanna incline her head in greeting. He bowed. She ignored his presence in favour of pondering her next move. She could sneak back to her chambers, but she ran the risk of waking Marsia and the poor girl was feeling poorer yet this day. She could, on the other hand, go into the gardens. There she ran the risk of being accosted by one of the many guests. The reprehensible, self-serving part of her asked that she return forthwith to her chambers, Marsia’s head cold be damned.

She did the exact opposite. It was always worth keeping in mind that the reprehensible, self-serving part of her brought her quick satisfaction followed by much suffering. Once or twice was lesson enough for her. The arduous path it was then. With a soft sigh, which she hoped would not spell out her general mood for long, she dragged her feet down several flights of stairs, shuffling her way along empty corridors.

Her predictions were surprisingly accurate. Elbert Arryn was badgering his squire about something or another when she happened upon them but as soon as he took notice of her presence, he all but forgot his grievance with the young boy and turned towards her, all smiles. “Lady Lyanna.”

“Ser.” She smiled back, a thin stretch of lips. “Come down to take advantage of the good weather?”

“And of the good company.” How glib he was. “Your brother rode off with Robert and Ned.” Sometimes she wondered if he forgot that Ned was her brother as well. “And I find myself rather lonely at the moment.” Squire notwithstanding.

“Indeed. I can see how you would, ser.” There was nothing for it.  “Would you care for some company, since yours has departed, then?”

“If the request is not too much.” His squire, she suspected would act as shadow to his master and follow them about. She acquiesced graciously. “You are most generous, my lady.”

“For such a long-standing friend of my brother’s, how could I not?” Her rebuff did not go unnoticed. Fortunately, Elbert took it with good enough cheer that she did not feel obligated to excuse her behaviour. He’d always been the obliging sort. Too easily led as well. Better not to raise his hopes. “I have heard His Grace shall be joining us. I understand my brother made his acquaintance in King’s Landing. They struck a particular friendship?”

“Ah, His Grace,” Elbert chuckled. “To be entirely fair, my lady, I cannot tell. It seemed to be they rubbed along well, but your brother cannot help making friends wherever he goes. It did not surprise me that His Grace joined the ranks.”

“Forsooth. Is he as accomplished a jouster as they say, His Grace?”

“I did not have the fortune of matching skills with him, but I saw him run against Ser Arthur Dayne. It was a splendid show, to be sure.” He proceeded to describe some of the techniques used. Lyanna listened with intent. Last she’d pretended at jousting her she had landed on her backside and the hurt had been with her for ages. It was not a prospect she relished encountering again. Still, if Ser Elbert was game, she could listen, indeed very gratefully, to a few stories.  

They continued their ambling through the gardens, her companion talking at lengths. She posed a few questions of her own. “Might be we can prevail upon your brother to allow a demonstration. It shan’t be as grand as a tourney joust, but I do not see the reason for which he would not allow it.” 

She supposed there was not. Lyanna agreed. “If you can accomplish as much, I will be forever grateful.”

“That is more than enough reason.” He helped her over a patch of thornbush.

More in charity with the man, she felt a genuine smile tug at her lips as he explained one of Brandon’s follies to her. “I swear to you, my lady, to this day he avoids honking fowls.” Lyanna could not hold back her laughter.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Marsia sucked in a sharp breath, her elbow sinking gently into the cage of Lyanna’s ribs. “I say, your brother is the meanest narrator there ever was. He forgot the most significant of details.” Struggling to keep a straight face, Lyanna attempted to shush her companion.

“Hush, Marsia.” Brandon had just finished introducing Ned and Benjen.

“And this,” he stopped before Lyanna, “is my sister, Your Grace.” Lyanna dropped into a curtsy, without daring to hold the man’s gaze for too long. He might detect amusement and think to ask for its source.

“I do not suppose she might do me the favour of glancing my way,” the Prince said with enough humour that no one could mistake his intent. Blushing hotly, Lyanna consigned her fear of discovery to the back of her mind. Rising her chin, she levelled as direct a stare as could be. He chuckled. “Quick to comply.”

“For fear of chastisement. Older brothers are a frighteningly loud lot,” she answered quickly before she could change her mind. Brandon glowered at her outburst.

The chuckle turned into laughter. The company he’d brought along followed his example. “Never having been in such a position, I shall take your word for it, my lady.”

He put his hand forth and she offered her own. Princes were, by and large, not required to show such appreciation to any woman, be she their hostess or otherwise. It was a gesture of marked approval. “Stark, I am surprised you did not mention her more often.”

“I thought Your Grace should come to his own conclusions regarding my kin.” Brandon could occasionally be subtle, it seemed. His look promised they would talk later. Lyanna gave her best innocent smile.

The Prince turned his eyes upon the young lord. “Sometimes encouragement is required. Nonetheless, given that we are here, I shan’t hold it against you, Stark.”

Somewhat surprised at the camaraderie, she watched as the introductions went on. Approached by one of the Prince’s companions, Lyanna met the stare of a soft-looking, yet clearly curious woman. She was also pregnant, if Lyanan did not miss her guess. Elia Martell, her mind supplied before the other had a chance to open her mouth. “I must commend you on your deftness. I was not half as quick when I met him. He still teases me to this day.” She did not need to ask who he was.

“You are most gracious, my Princess.” Elia laughed and caught one of her hands between her own. The same of Rhaegar had held.

“And you, my lady, are too kind.” She had recently wedded Ser Baelor Hightower, as far as Lyanna recalled. Sure enough, the man stood a shirt distance away, speaking to Ser Glover. The lines had broken and people milled about.

“You must be tired. After so much time on the road.” Small talk she found infinitely irritating, even when she had to go through it with the nicest of people.

“It was not as bad as all that. But I could do with a stool.” She patted her rounded middle. “I am not as I used to be.” The faux-mournful note was met with a strange look from the woman’s husband.

“Certainly, let us find some stools then.”        

She did not have much of a chance to learn the Dornishwoman any better. Their just-arrive guests were treated to wine and salte bread. She saw to excahnging a few words with each and every single one of them, after which she was quickly joined by her brother, no doubt for whatever words he wished to exchange with her.

“What did I ask?” Brandon whispered harshly as they moved together up the stairs, mounting the steps at questionable speed. “Not to make a spectacle. It was not a difficult request.”

“It was hardly a spectacle. Now, were I to run about bare-arsed–“ His palm clamped over her mouth. Lyanna, who did not quite manage to spot herself in time, muffled the rest of the words against the callused skin.

“If this is your idea of entertainment, I need must ask that you stop. At once.” He worried too much. Lyanna gave him a look to convey just that. “We’ve so much to gain. If you could only keep yourself from ruining our good image. He was amused by your antics today, but the man is a Targaryen, just like his father. I have seen men burn for less than a cross look.”  

He released her lips. “But you said it yourself, His Grace bears no ill-will towards us. Surely you would not heap the sins of the father upon the sun.”

“I wish I knew him well enough to answer that.”

“I see. So you have decided to invite a dangerous lunatic into our home, and–“  She did not let something as inconsequential as a wall of flesh stop her this time. Brandon did not look pleased. “You cannot just stop my speech whenever you hear something you do not like.”

“Would you be willing to bet on that?” She glared.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“Surely the situation is not so dire.” Ned shook his head, apparently in agreement with her. “I have read the books.”

“Half of the expenses can easily be covered by Lady Catelyn’s dowry.” As mercenary as it was to consider a woman’s dowry before one considered the woman herself, Lyanna could not bring herself to make too much of a fuss over it.

“That is precisely the trouble. I do not think I can wed her.”

“I beg your pardon!” She was aware her voice had risen an octave or two by the wince on Brandon’s face.

“Why precisely is that?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The very pregnant Elia Martell and her handsome husband were placing bets among themselves as to whom would win. The very beautiful Lady Ashara Dayne offered her a lax smile. “One can never be certain, you see. My brother and His Grace are close enough in skills that ‘tis hardly safe to make any bets.”

“I see.” Brandon had lost nobly enough and Lyanna was relieved that at least none of his friends were to get her ribbon either. That would be as good as a declaration in her brother’s eyes.

She watched Rhaegar Targaryen lead his horse to the end opposite Ser Arthur Dayne’s.  Only great risks entailed great rewards. Lyanna did not beg the gods though.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The rough wool inside the cap scratched something fierce at her head. Lyanna had always thought a headful of hair would provide adequate protection against such attacks as the one she was currently suffering under. Needless to say, she could not seem to get her headache to subside either. But that was to occupy her mind another time. Lyanna had just finished settling her mare in her appointed stall and was dusting her hands off when a yell along with a pair of reins flew her way.

She caught more out of instinct than deliberate design. Her fingers wrapped around the straps as her eyes came upon an arguing duo. Ser Arthur and the Prince were caught in a heated debate. All appearances aside, she could not detect anger but rather determination on both parts. For a brief moment she thought of slipping away undetected.

“Am I to understand that I have been gifted with a horse?” Both men became stock still.  

Lyanna held up the reins, eyeing the steed. “Beautiful creature, but I thought knights seldom parted with their horses.” Ser Dayne had certainly not surrendered his. She smiled, turning her gaze upon the men. 

“Well, my friend,” Arthur teased, “it seems you are to endure a defeat yet again. Say, Lady Lyanna, what would convince you to never return the horse?”

Rhaegar shooed Arthur with a vaguely rude gesture. “I say, is it not unfair to trick me out of my possessions?”

“Only if it was deliberate. As far as I can tell, you have tricked yourself. You may offer something in exchange, I suppose, and I shall consider returning him.” The horse nudged her gently and she nudged back. Playful beast.

“Ah, my kingdom for that horse, lady.” She could tell he was in jest, but since he had suggested it, she produced an appropriately weighing expression.

“Your kingdom, you say, Your Grace?” He nodded. Was he not in jest. She continued on gamely, “No; that would be robbing you blind. Since it would be ill-bred to accept, you should suggest something else.”

Arthur, who apparently had no other business but to be nosing about, put forth, “Were you coming or leaving, my lady?”

“Leaving actually. I have just taken my morning ride.” As if she had to explain. The state of her, dusty and, dare she say it, unkempt, it was hardly a mystery.

“Good,” the knight went on, “His Grace was just saying to me that he is interested in the Northerner method of building glass gardens in the North.” Could he be anymore obvious.

“I thought you were just telling him your opinion on, err, dirks, was it?”

“She is much too quick for you, Dayne. Best give up before any fatal injury is dealt.”

Her vanity stroked, she bit down upon a smile. “But if His Grace does so desire, I shall take him to the glass gardns.” Provided the state she was in, he would have to be a madman to consider as much as kissing her cheeks.

Apparently the suggestion was timely made. The knight chuckled and nodded towards the Prince. “I believe I have a stable boy to find.”

“Or two,” Rhaegar tugged the reins out of Lyanna’s hand and pressed them into Arthur’s.

The Dornishman grinned and promptly made himself scarce. Lyanna stared after him for a few moments. “Ah, I should not have given that horse up.”

“Alas,” the Prince returned. His hand pressed across her back in silent guidance. Lyanna stiffened for just a moment before she followed along. But her hands were already climbing, reaching. “What are you doing?”

“Taking this off.” She lifted the cap, releasing the concealed mass of hair. It occurred to her that he had not once seen her hair in any state other than combed and curled and dressed. A blush threatened to spread over her cheeks when she noticed him staring. She twisted the mass over one shoulder. “It is not the most comfortable of pieces,” she added, resisting the urge to comb her fingers through her tresses. Instead she tied the cap’s laces to her belt, securing the scarp of pelt and wool.

“It is straight.” Fortunately she did not pose a dumb question to that.

“Bone-straight. I suppose the length does not help matters.” Self-consciously she tried to gauge his reaction. There was nothing for her to find. “Fortunately one can fall back on hot irons.”

“I would not suggest falling back on hot irons, my lady. You might burn yourself.” Unwittingly, she laughed. Rhaegar reached out and tugged a strand towards him. He wrapped it around his fingers, producing a dark slash against the light tones. It was soft. Lyanna had some vanity of her own and her hair, the gods knew, was what she chose to be vain about. It was something she shared with her mother, the bone-straight tresses. Thus they benefitted from her love and care, which meant regular washings and thorough combings. He let go.

“Do you always take everything in such a literal sense?”

“Are you always willing to walk off with a stranger, my lady?”

Her lips pursed. “No. You are my first.” He did not falter, not precisely, but he did slow his pace. Rhaegar held her gaze. She stared back. “You lost to Ser Dayne on purpose, did you not? Why?”

“So I might do this.” She blinked. He lost so he could take a walk with her? But Rhaegar was already closer than before, one hand upon her shoulder. The other at his belt, he pulled out a hunting knife. She jerked backwards instinctively.

Appearing not to mind her reaction he removed his hand from her shoulder to tug at the same strand of hair from before. The blade made no sound. The shorn strand did though; Lyanna imagined it was a screech. “What–“

“You do not wear ribbons,” he answered. Perplexed, Lyanna awaited further explanation. “That ribbon was of no value to you. It cost me nothing to let Dayne, or whoever else have it. After all, I had my eyes set on the true prize.” He dangled the long strand before her eyes before wrapping it around his finger.

Belatedly, her hand rose to the side of her head, feeling for the stump of her lost lock. “One is required to ask permission before doing such a thing.”

His grin held something akin to cruelty. She gulped. “You are a fascinating young woman. Nevertheless, I know more than you think I do.” She took a step back. He did not follow. “You would not refused me the boon”

“I might have.” Her breath broke sharply against the ensuing silence. “I would have,” Lyanna insisted. “You are rather full of yourself, Your Grace. Such a trait is seldom appealing.”

“It is merited though.” Then he followed. Lyanna had no hope of outrunning him, even in breeches. Thus she kept still, following his movements with her eyes. Muscles tense, she waited. “I am not unreasonable though.”

Just like that, he cupped her face between his hands and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. No, not even a kiss. More like a brush of his lips only a millimetre away from hers. “I hope that satisfies your vanity, my lady.” He drew back.

At a loss, she breathed in and out, staring uncomprehendingly at his face. Until the reality of the situation dawned upon her. Boiling anger rose to the surface. She grabbed at his shoulders. “What do you think you are doing?” Surprise registered upon his features. “You’ve no right to take advantage of me like that.” And to prove her point, she went on. “Either you give me a fighting chance or I make one for myself. Either way, Your Grace,” she spat the title out venomously, “either way, I refuse to be the sole giver here.”

The knight in the face of his most dangerous foe remained unmoved. “What could you possibly give me that I cannot find anywhere else?” The blow was immeasurable in strength. Set back on her heels, Lyanna let go. “You may give me an answer at the tourney. “

“Brandon will not take me to the tourney.”

“Make him.” She had expected that he might at least suggest talking to her brother. The backs of his fingers brushed against her cheek. “If you truly wish to, you will be there. With your answer.”

She considered laughing in his face. There was no need for her to give him any reasons; she qualified just by being. But Lyanna was not so much of a brainless girl that she might go along with such an answer.  “I adjure you to wait upon my answer then, Your Grace.”

“How could I possibly refuse?”

They had reached the glass gardens. Lyanna led him within and was not surprised to see others were about. A sigh of relief left her lips. She did not think she had the strength to endure more of him on her own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Before you ask, I know it sucks, but my dog is sick, I have a monster of a headache and everything sucks. So I can only promise to do better next time.


	2. Scene II.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Biting the inside of her cheek to a point where she feared blood might flow, Lyanna watched her grandmother arrange the folds of her skirts for the hundredth time. She wanted to ride. The wheelhouse jerked and rattled, snagging upon ruts and sharp stones. Her breath drew in short gasps. Marsia placed her hand upon Lyanna’s own in silent soothing. She wanted to turn towards her kin and speak appreciation to the gesture but that would open the door to so much more.

Grandmother shifted, the boards beneath those embroidered cushions she so loved creaking. A smaller cushion sat in the woman’s lap, her hands resting upon it gingerly. Lyanna knew it was her mother who had embroidered many of these linen garments. She had watched her do it for some. In fact, if memory served, that particular darling her grandmother showed favour to had been crafted shortly before mother’s death. Half a dozen unfinished linens lied upon the bottom of her trunk. She hadn’t the heart to take a needle or a knife to them. Thus they remained forever trapped in a state of incompletion.

Her eyes traced the shape of a blood-red leaf dancing upon the edge. Her mother, may the gods rest her, had been of the opinion that one should show one’s advantages to the fullest. Thus naught she could do herself had ever been pressed into the hands of servants, save for those instances in which two hands were nowhere near enough to deal with the mischief her little ones created. For hours on end mother would worry over her patterns and threads. Lyanna had always though whatever came from her labour worth praising. Being the woman’s daughter she admitted to the possibility of a bias tainting her perception, but surely ‘twas insignificant in nature.

Having never been able to replicate her mother’s work with half as much talent, Lyanna had relegated herself to the position of admirer, even when grandmother insisted she make her own attempts into the field. “It shall give you an occupation beside suffering megrims at the ineptitude of your servants,” the old woman had encouraged. Lyanna reckoned she had answered most impertinently to that for the memory needled.

The silence stretched further out, suffocating the last of her good intentions. Marsia’s fingers curled tighter around her own. The girl bent forth, ostensibly after a cushion which had dropped. She picked it up one-handed and placed it upon her lap. She shifted in her own seat, her free hand dropping to the fall of her skirts. Grandmother had insisted upon the latest layer-heavy kirtle to be foisted upon her. Despite her continual insistence that she did not need it, the woman had simply assured her that the dress would make her hips wider, which Lyanna had taken in with a frown and a passionate declaration that her hips did not need any plumping. Grandmother had been about as receptive as the sea was to a dying ember. And thus she found herself thrust into a most uncomfortable garment.

Marsia had been spared the indignity as she had smartly turned the head of one of her father’s men. Since she was a younger daughter and not in line to receive a hefty dowry, her sire had been only too happy to allow their betrothal. In effects, the girl was loaned to Lyanna until her man found the necessary funds one presumed. Neverthelss, it remained that Lyanna was equally joyful and envious. Why did some women have such an easy time of it, where she, daughter of a grand house, with breeding various other advantages, had to play to the tune of an overweening upstart. Fate had decreed that his ancestors come with their strange sorcery to these lands. Were it otherwise, she doubted he would merit as much as a glance from her. Considering fate’s cruel sense of humour would not make her predicament more tenable. Like it or not she depended upon the man and she would do better to think of some answer to his question.

Yet no matter how much she pecked at her own brains, Lyanna remained firmly empty-handed. Her eyes darted to the lattice covering the small opening. She could see without one of her brother’s riders. It was Halwyn Umber if she did not have the wrong of it.

As most Umber men he cut a striking figure if only for his generous proportions. He was kin to Jon Umber, the son of his uncle. Lyanna knew Jon better than she did the cousin, but she had little doubt in her mind that he rode with them for one reason and one reason only, her brother wished to scare off all men but those truly brave. Indeed, his riders put the fiercest mercenaries-army to shame. Sellswords, of course, would not stand a chance against these men. At least Lyanna did not have to fear for her safety.

The wheelhouse began slowly. She nearly whooped for joy at that. Somehow, she found the wherewithal to hold it in. Before long she would be stretching her poor legs. Might be she could even prevail upon her brother to allow that she ride, at least for some small amount of time, very near him. Truly, Brandon acted as if she were a skittish colt, ready to bolt at the first sight of intractable behaviour on his part. Men could be rather obtuse at times. She dearly hoped that the one she had set her cap at could at the very least discern her desires from mere fantasies. She planted her feet firmly upon the wooden floors of the wheelhouse in anticipation. Her heel thudded gently against the wood with the careless motion. Grandmother levelled a harsh stare her way.

“Uncomfortable?” Her tin lips drew together like a purse-string. She straightened her own back, pushing her shoulders back as if to demonstrate the proper position. “Have you need of the Book?”

She asked that as though Lyanna entertained herself with the ditties found in the Seven-Pointed Star. “Not at all, my lady.” As far as Northerners were concerned, heavy tomes served admirably to fashion one’s posture. As grandmother was fond of reminding her, had the Seven not wished their teaching used to straighten those they sought to shepherd in the most literal of senses, they would not have put their teaching in such a book.

She bit back a sigh and wondered if it were not better that the old woman make a bid for the Prince’s attention. They both seemed to share a fondness for the literal.

Her musings where interrupted when the wheelhouse finally drew to a definitive halt, releasing her from her grandmother’s clutches. As fast as humanly possible in her most-hated-yet garments, she shot up from her seat and scurried for the door, unlatching it with impressive speed. One of her brother’s man was just then dismounting, no doubt in a bid to help the womenfolk. She hadn’t the patience.

Lyanna jumped to the ground, ignoring the soft sound of protest coming from within. She breathed in greedily, pleased to feel the wind in her face and the solid, pebbled ground beneath her doeskin slippers. Her arms barely remained glued to her sides.

Halwyn, whose horse was only a few feet away in the care of a younger lad, crossed the length between the two of them. “My lady, care for a stroll?” He offered the use of his sturdy arm. Lyanna, eager to be away from her kin, agreed without hesitation. She liked the man as well as she did any other, thus saw no reason to protest his invitation. “Upon my beard, I had expected you would race your brothers this fine day. We were much disappointed it turned out not to be the case.” Her fame served her well yet again.

Blushing, she tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and stepped daintily over an unevenness in the road. They made it to where the grass grew tall. “I thought not to tire my mare out.” She’d never been a particularly able liar. But Halwyn raised no protest to her words. Either he believes her sincere, which meant her skills had improved, or he could not be bothered to understand her mind. Which Lyanna would not blame him if that were the case, she found little sense in her thoughts at times.  

Yet how could she bring herself to admit that she was trying to act the proper lady in hopes of catching someone’s eye. That would imply she felt ashamed of her earlier conduct. Lyanna simply meant to appease any fear of the Prince’s that she would not fit right in with the rest of his existence.

“How very considerate of you, my lady.” He was teasing her. Lyanna’s colour rose yet again. He did not comment upon that, presumably inclined to protect her sensibilities. Grateful for the timely shield she provoked no further comments on his part least her pride come out tattered. “And think you, my lady, the mare would be amenable now that she has had her rest? We should like to place some bets.”

“We?” She always had enjoyed being embroiled in some sort of mischief. Halwyn gestured to some of the man. One dared a friendly smile filled with unspoken words. She nodded her head in understanding.

“What have I to gain from this?” Friendship was all good and well, but if bets were being made she desired her fair share. That at least would take her mind off of what was to come.

“If my lady puts it like that,” he continued to make his offer, proceeding to woo Lyanna with promises of silver stags. While she doubted anyone would be enough of a fool to bet so much against Brandon she pretended agreement. “I suspect the exercise would do us all good.” Especially to those of them enthralled by the vice of gambling. She did not comment upon that but instead turned to look at Marsia who stood at grandmother’s side. The crone was shooting arrows from her eyes. Treated to such warmth she took a step back from Halwyn. “The wrath of Lady Marna is not to be tested, is it?” He chuckled and inclined his head in polite greeting.

“Could not have put it better myself.” She took her leave of him and returned to the women’s side. “I should like to ride for a spell. Grandmother, I am certain you will not object.” Her certainty suffered a blow when her grandmother denied the request.

“I know that Umber boy. Up to no good, he is. Forever gambling coin away as though it were pebbles. You shan’t be riding with him, I can tell you that now.” Fangs bared, she waited for retaliation.

She could have risen to the bait and asserted herself, but rather than to do so, she chose a more self-effacing measure. “I had thought to ride with my brother. As he owes me protection, I assumed I should have the benefit of his care in company as well.”

Marsia giggled behind her palm. “A ride would be lovely.” The agreement emboldened Lyanna. She circled her arm through her kin’s and tugged her closer. Marsia went willingly. “We shan’t be long and my lord will be most pleased to see his sister better disposed.”

Nevermind that she planned to ride against Brandon. Lyanna was simply too pleased with Marsia negotiating on her behalf to raise objection to the words. “Very kind of you to aid,” she said once they were out of earshot.

“She means well, grandmother does, but you were fair close to falling into a faint. The wheelhouse can be rather constrictive.”

Their mares were being led their way by a fresh-faced youth. Another boy brought with him a step stool. They mounted, both of them sideways. Normally she would not have shied from mounting as men did, but the trouble was, her grandmother’s careful perusal had not permitted her to hide a pair of breeches beneath her skirts. And she was not about to gratify the curiosity of some knave passing by as to whether her ankles presented any interest.

She and Marsia rode to the front of the line where Brandon conversed with Ned. The two of them greeted their arrival with twin nods but did not break the line of their conversation. Lyanna saw no reason to do so either. She aligned herself to them and allowed their kin to do likewise. Their words trickled past her ear. “It is the perfect opportunity and I expect you to use it to your advantage,” Brandon was instructing.

Their altercation about Catelyn Tully seemed to have been put behind them. Lyanna threw a curious glance Ned’s way but he studiously avoided her gaze. “Yes, Brandon, but not all of us have the good fortune of your charm and ease of approach.”

“Nonsense, you are a Stark. What more do you need?” Quite possibly some confidence. She kept that to herself, listening to Ned’s murmured reply. “Confound it, if you spoke to the maidens every once in a while you would find they are neither as frightening nor as demanding as you make them out to be.”

What would he know of demanding maidens? Brandon had always had his position as heir to fall upon, coupled with an enormous amount of confidence and some carefully cultivated charm, he had yet to find a maiden who did not like his company. That in itself should have rendered his opinion biased. Ned was simply not the sort of man to set a girl’s heart a-quiver. He would, of course, provide adequate support, but even as a loving sister she could not delude herself that he rivalled Brandon. And Lyanna suspected that was part of what ate at him.

Sibling rivalry was a natural thing. Especially when those siblings cared for another as much as her two brothers did. It was not meant in spite, every little comparison. But that would not change the fact that Ned fell short in certain regards when pitted against their eldest brother. And her heart lurched painfully with the knowledge as Brandon could at times be careless and Ned much too complacent. He seemed to wait upon a sign of the gods. His greatest flaw as far as she was concerned. If there was one thing he could do was at least try asserting himself.

Marsia pushed her elbow into her arm warningly. “Might be we should wait ahead?” she asked, clearly catching the same bits and pieces as Lyanna.

“No. This is not a delicate matter, after all, and you and I do not need to be shielded, do we?” She nodded acceptance of Lyanna’s words and remained still, but turned her face away, concentrating on something else. Dear Marsia, ever concerned with propriety. And how well that had served her thus far. Lyanna adopted her stance as well after a moment of consideration. Her brothers would them know when they were done.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lord Whent pressed her hand with warmth and kissed both her cheeks. “A most splendid picture,” he strengthened his previous compliment, releasing her to her brother’s care. If Brandon thought anything of the man’s forward manner, he did not show it. If the man’s wife thought anything herself, she hid it well behind a wide smile.

Lyanna exchanged perfunctory kisses with the woman. “I was just reminiscing with my lord husband about the good old days,” she said. “I recall your lady mother looked much as you do at your age.” Surprise registered across her face, she knew she had shown it too. “Well, my dear girl, you did not think your lord father would miss an opportunity to show off his lovely bride, did you? I met her at court a while after they wedded. He had come to swear fealty as the new lord of his house and have his claim properly established.”

“Yes, of course.” Their conversation did not extend beyond that. She was forced to step forth, as other guests had gathered behind her, awaiting their own greeting. Lyanna placed her hand upon Brandon’s arm and lifted the hem of her skirts surreptitiously; the material had somehow managed to wound tightly around her legs, making striding after her brother’s speed difficult. Somehow, without her having to exert herself into allowing complaints past her lips, he slowed.

Relieved, she managed to untangle some of the skirts now that she did not have to stumble over her feet. “What a warm welcome that was. What could possibly account for it?” she questioned gently, shaking the folds of her kirtle until they were straight and no longer in her way.

“They were not particular friends of our parents’ if that is what you’re asking. I can only assume it has to do with my recent ascension in His Grace’s esteem.” She made a thoughtful sound and glanced about, trying to place a few faces in the sea of human bustling.

Ned, who had until that point followed silently after his introduction, took her other hand. “Perhaps we do not know as much as we think we do about our parents. Come, Brandon, if father truly frequented court in his youth, ‘tis only natural that he had made some acquaintances we were not told every small detail about.”

She sighed and squeezed his arm. “I suppose. It was just unsettling to be so thoroughly noticed.” Not that she wished not to be noticed. Indeed, the whole point was to be noticed, but by one man in particular.

“Prepare yourself to be further unsettled,” Brandon said, lacking any shred of pity in his voice.

“Lord Stark.” It was one of Lord Whent’s sons. Lyanna wondered if this one was the eldest. They had been pointed out to her, but since greeting were not as strict affairs as they had been a few years ago, the knights had been allowed to mingle away from their sire. “Lady Lyanna. Ned.”

“Selwyn,” Brandon greeted, good-naturedly slapping a hand to the young man’s shoulders. Might be he was not the eldest. That one had to be older than Brandon. This one did not look any older than Ned. “Prepared to defend your sister’s title?”

“How could I not be? Jeyne has been pestering the lot of us that we must do our best. Wouldn’t think any woman could be so insistent otherwise. All over a crown of flowers.”

Men could be so very obtuse. Lyanna choose to speak not a word to the young Ser Whent upon the matter of his sister and her crown. Even if one were crowned by a dutiful brother, it remained that in those eyes at that particular moment there had been no one to declare her better. Even more precious was a crown from a man not immediate family. Many women would sell their soul for something of the kind.

If only she were given a crown of her own. Lyanna pushed the thought away lest it linger and sour her mood. She needed to be on her best behaviour. Brandon made his reply before leading the lot of them away, a flourish in his step.

“What lifts your spirit so?” she questioned, half-amused at the display.

“I was thinking that my sister will be the one basking in the glory of a title at this tourney’s end.” She stilled, his prediction hitting so very close to home. Ned jerked back, not having expected her to halt. Brandon tugged her after him. Consequently, she faltered.

“What–“

“Come now, a bit more trust in my skills would not be amiss.” She did not know why she had expected that he might mention the Prince. Lyanna felt her cheeks heat with embarrassed frustration. She could tell when her hopes galloped before her. “Sel’s brothers are not that very different from him. I daresay where there is no will, a way can be forged.”

“That is not how I remember the saying.” Brandon turned to her with a boyish grin. It was no difficult to understand why maidens swooned over a prepossessing facial configuration. Especially when one was the object of attention. She licked her lips. “I find your confidence somewhat prematurely expressed.”

His grin widened, if such a thing were possible, and he looked for all the world as a wolf stumbling into a pen of bleating sheep. “You give yourself too little credit.” She did not. Lyanna did not correct her brother’s views. “If only you applied yourself to charming a man, I promise you they would fall at your feet.” She imagined herself a conquering force sweeping through the ranks of the noble-born. A smile threatened to break over her face.

“I do not want all of them lying at my feet.” No, it was not her hope in life to collect a grand total of hearts. One good one would do. “I will keep your words in mind.”

If she applied herself to capturing a man she could have him. Lyanna wondered whether the Prince was included. She did not want his heart. She did need the position though. How else could she set about doing what she wanted to do? She nodded her head and they continued to move about the great hall, greeting familiar faces left and right. Brandon, at least, made an effort to introduce them properly.

“Lord Lannister refuses to attend yet again?” She started. Lyanna glanced Brandon’s way as he spoke to an elderly lord, she tried to recall his name.

“He sends his son, the young Ser Jaime.” Young Ser Jaime was possibly one of the youngest men to have ever been knighted. Her lips curled downwards in disapproval. He could be no more than a child. A child who seemed to have been given the benefit of the doubt as to whether he was capable of carrying the load placed upon his shoulders.

“A pity his daughter could not make the journey as well.” Her brother chuckled. “That one would turn a few heads.”

“Indeed, but one cannot expect that she would. Lord Lannister seems to have not forgotten His Majesty’s rebuke yet.” Her eldest brother shrugged as Ned drew her away.

“I did want to hear what His Majesty could possibly rebuke Lord Lannister over.” Ned simply pressed forth with whatever he had planned, leading her through the crowd.

“I see Robert over there. We should greet him.”

She saw Robert as well. He smiled his greeting over the din of the chamber. Lyanna, with a heavy heart, proceeded to plaster a smile upon her lips. “I could cheerfully murder you.” He nodded his understanding, murmuring something about how he would not take long. That was a lie.

Still nothing could save her from making nice to her brother’s friend and enduring his so very subtle remarks about her appearance. It was as if he could not see a thing behind her smile. “I so hope you keep your word or I swear I shall leap upon the first man in my sight and beg him to bear me away.”

Ned laughed. He looked years younger when he did so. “I can only hope whoever catches your eyes in a worthy man then.” Playfully slapping his shoulder, she rebuked his uncaring manner. “Very well, I hope he is monstrous then.”

“You are impossible.” Their moment of levity was met with a swift end as they entered familiar company. Robert bent over her hand, pressing the poor limb harder than strictly necessary. Why had Ned suggested the man had a chance? She would never countenance such a union. “I admit to coming here with some trepidation,” she answered politely to a question Robert had posed, “for fear that I shall know only very few faces.”

“And I take it you are at ease now.” Not particularly. She loathed not being certain of every single one person around her. That she kept to herself.  Her head moved through the motions of a nod.

Catching a flash of something from the corner of her eye, she turned, instinctively, to satiate her curiosity. And then wished she had not. The Prince just entered the hall, on his arm Princess Elia. Her husband had his arm linked through Lady Ashara’s.

The first of the Dornishwomen took notice of her and changed direction for their small group, turning her face towards the Prince, presumably to let him know of her plans. But Rhaegar’s eyes were already on her. Lyanna felt her skin prickle as awareness sent frissons down her spine. She hoped her skin remained more or less its customary shade.

Robert greeted his kin, his warmth genuine. If Rhaegar did not return the gesture with equal cordiality than that pssed by uncommented upon. “You already know Ned and his sister.”

Lady Ashara came to Elia’s side. “How could we possibly forget.” Lyanna’s hopes were transferred from her own person to Ned’s. “The Princess and I have just finished saying that one hoped for as good a host in Lord Whent as Lord Stark was.” The raven haired woman smiled at Ned, her violet eyes crinkling softly.

“I have never attended a tourney I did not like,” the Princess said for herself, turning to catch her husband by the arm. “I should like to find a seat. All this walking had done me in.”

Ever solicitous, Ser Baelor placed a hand against the small of his wife’s back. “If you will excuse us, Your Grace, ladies.” He nodded to Robert and Ned, a very nearly apologetic smile upon his lips. What was it with men and breath-taking smiles.

Another wave of awareness coursed through her. She planted her stare upon Ashara Dayne. The woman gave her a smile. “I say, the Princess is a most fortunate woman. Ser Baelor does seem to dote upon her.”

“Now see here, don’t start with that,” Robert chuckled. “Nothing has quite the effect on men as maidens waxing poetics over marriage.”

“Why, ser,” she addressed him coyly, knowing fully well Robert had not yet been knighted, “who is to say that was not my purpose? Might be I wish a word with my lady Lyanna and you are in the way.”

“In the way?” Clearly, the two were having fun. “You wound me, my lady.”

“Better you than me. Now, have any of you seen that wayward brother of mine?” Robert and Ned were quick to offer their services, but Lyanna noticed the Prince did not do the same. Instead he dipped his head ever so slightly her way. Taking that for some sort of signal, she neglected to offer anything either and before long, the two young men were off, their search bearing more importance than anything else. If only she had half of Lady Ashara’s charm. Shaking her head ruefully, Lyanna but back a sigh.

“I am off to find my brother,” the Dornishwoman announced, stepping in the opposite direction she’d sent her brother and his companion in.

“I–“ Her attempt was cut short by a shake of the head. Rhaegar offered his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her towards the wall, where those who wished for a circular stroll about the chamber could be satisfied as a path had been cleared for them.

“One does not expect as lively a girl as you to have wilted so very easily.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Is it the effects of the journey?”

“I raced my brother for the last leg of the journey.” Her lips pinched. She should not have said that. “Well, as well as one may race in skirts.”

He raised one eyebrow at her, then swept his gaze down her kirtle as though to make certain it suffered no repercussions. “Is that so?” She nodded mutely, something turning in the pit of her stomach. “Did ypu win?”

“No.” Her frown deepened. She wished he would have a more familiar reaction. Might be surprise, or disgust. She could hardly pin what she did not know. “My pride still smarts. He could have been the bigger person here. It would have cost him nothing.”

“Not unless one grows used to such favours.” Were they speaking of Brandon. “I am certain your brother gave as much leniency as he could.” Her head moved dutifully. He had; he might have driven his horse far harder had either of them taken the race seriously. “I do not think I have seen you ride.”

He’d seen her returning from a ride though. Lyanna looked away. Her gaze crossed Brandon’s. He paused midspeech, but returned to the conversation when it became apparent she was in company. “I enjoy solitary rides. ‘Tis why I take them early in the morning.”

The space between them filled with silence until she was compelled to turn towards him once more. He regarded her in a contemplative manner. “You will continue your habit here as well.”

That, she surmised, had not been a question. Men were quite something; he had not even deigned to give her a proper kiss and he thought to give her a schedule. “I am not in Winterfell.” His eyes sparked with something she could not define. “My mare may see of me as much as my grandmother finds appropriate, I daresay.”

“Do you enjoy arguments, my lady?”

“Not at all.” She beamed up at him, once more forced to face the fact that he loomed over her. One lunge from him and she would be as helpless as a child.

“We shall speak on the morrow.” Her opinion was not needed. Provoking man, she hissed to herself as he pressed her hand perfunctorily before settling her free into the care of her brother. The Prince remained speaking to Brandon for a few moments on some political matter she pushed out of her mind. Surely if he wished to see her on the morrow that meant she had his attention.    

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The mare threw her head back bellicosely, the fine mane of hair flying back. Lyanna crew upon the reins with a sharp sound, not entirely pleased to be elevated and slanted backwards as the horse rose to its hindquarters. It was pure luck she had decided to go riding in breeches and not in a dress. Frankly, contemplating the state of her had she mounted sideways did not appeal.

“Not particularly fond of listening, is she?” came the question from behind her, giving Lyanna a start just after she had managed to calm the mare down. Her whipped her head back. “A trait she must have picked up from her mistress.”

“Not at all. I am most docile.” He looked amused at the statement.

“For a moment there I thought I might have to intervene.” He drove his own horse closer to hers. The gelding, apparently expecting affection from familiar faces wasted no time nudging its head towards her. The mare neighed, her nature revealing itself yet again.

“The thought is appreciated, but I am well capable of handling the likes of her.” Lyanna nodded towards the mare’s head. “She is simply put out that there has been so little riding.” Pleased that she had said her piece, she teased her fingers though the mare’s mane in a gentle combing gesture.

“I’ve no doubt.” It was impossible to tell whether he was sincere or not. Lyanna took it for a compliment nonetheless, her attention moving to his face. There was no smile, nor a frown. It seemed to her she was looking at the surface of a still lake, a deep still lake. If she plunged in, she risked drowning. Dare she?

“I have been thinking, what does one offer to a man who has everything.” The words stretched out between them.

“Everything?” the Prince echoed. His gaze shifted to the horizon line. Since the sun was not quite up yet, the rosy trace stood bright against the bruised backdrop of predawn. “Why do you presume I have everything?”

“Come, Your Grace,” she answered, her manner as gentle as his, “I will not bore you repeating what must have been said to you a thousand times over. I have reached a conclusion. As such I can only hope I manage to present my case in such a manner that a refusal would be unconscionable.”

The horses moved at like speed, hers keeping abreast his, though the beast he rode was somewhat larger than hers. She suspected it was capable of more than its master allowed.

“I am listening,” Rhaegar offered.

“My brother is to wed Lady Catelyn Tully.” He did not comment upon that. “My other brother squires with Robert Baratheon, whom I believe is your close kin. The North has thus far played truant as far as its duties towards the realm run. I can change that.” Rhaegar nodded. “This is the material side of the argument.” The mare’s muscles bunched beneath her.      

 “And the immaterial side?”

“I bed your pardon?”

“Your words imply there is an immaterial side to your argument.” They had stopped. Lyanna looked about the meadow with great care before making up her mind.

“My parents had a good marriage. ‘Tis my expectation that I can equal that.” She faced him, reaching out. No protest came from him. So she leaned over awkwardly, tugging him as she did so. Malleable her matrimonial target allowed her lips to press over his. He neither encouraged, nor hindered. And when no response came, she decided her point had been made, the rest was up to him, for her neck would pain her fiercely if she continued in such an awkward position.

But when she looked all that she could see was his unperturbable calm and her fears assailed her. Rhaegar dismounted with ease, allowing the gelding to do as it pleased. She, dumbstruck, remained seated well until his hand touched the indent of her waist. Understanding the unspoken command, she deftly released her leg from one stirrup, bringing it over until she sat sideways in the saddle. From there on him picking her up was might be one of the easiest things.

“Do you oft find yourself kissing men you do not know?” Her face heated with discomfiture as the direct words.

“No.” His hands cupped her face much in the manner he’d done in Winterfell, only this time there was no careful avoidance that he brought, but rather a curious attempt at exploration. She allowed him to do as he wished for the time being, wondering if she should count it as success.

His lips pressed into hers the touch firm, but not unkind. She had thought that perhaps she would not enjoy it, for she’d heard more than one servant girl complaining of some stablehand stealing kisses. There seemed nothing particularly egregious at play. Her shoulders relaxed. The fingers, branding her skin with heat, gave a soft stroke. The Prince pulled back.

“Good.” Her mind swirled with confusion. “It would not do if you were gallivanting around without a thought to propriety.”

“What does that mean?” Not about the gallivanting part. That she understood. “Have you come to some sort of decision?”

“Not yet.” Disappointment struck her. He was not far enough from her yet that he did not see it. “Patience is a useful virtue.” Her breath hitched. “I have enjoyed our morning ride. Might be we will see one another on the morrow.”

“Might be.” She would demand an answer then. If he thought he could toy with her expectations he thought wrong. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but I ought to return before my absence is noticed.”

“Indeed.” It could be that the better question was whether he met oft with unwedded maidens in private corners to divest them of their innocence. She wished she were less knowledgeable in that way. Then she might regard these meeting with less wariness and not suspect him to the detriment of her own enjoyment. After all, a few kisses were inconsequential.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The soft mist floated before her eyes, dissipating as wave after wave of harsh wind rushed it the way of the setting sun. The cold was so bitter, as bitter as ever she had felt. Her eyes fell to her end extremities. Lyanna wiggled her bare toes, the scratches running along her flesh not giving her pause. She kept moving. Sharp stones pierced her skin as she climbed down wide, blackened stairs. There was no light to guide herself by, yet the road seemed familiar, comfortable somehow and despite the discomfort of her injuries, she saw little reason to draw to a halt.

And then her mind caught up as wide doors loomed ahead. She knew those doors. Her hand reached out, touching the filigree handle. Fingers curled tightly around it and unexpected excitement burst to life within her chest. She pushed with all her weight against the panel, begging silently for entrance.

She was not denied. Lyanna stumbled within the cavernous space, a thousand faces set in stone turned towards her. The feeling of excitement had a swift demise under the empty-eyed glares. Its screech lodged itself into her head. Something crunched beneath her heel. She did not dare look. Her gaze held those of many ancestors, all of them judging, weighing, as though she were no longer worth of being in their presence, so did their mouths sour. Unwilling and incapable to turn back, she simply approached the awaiting darkness in which strangely lifelike faces followed her progress. One foot set before the other, on and on and on, she told herself, that was how one did it.

A pity such encouragements weighed nothing before the chips of ice spearing through her and the mouths twisting in distaste. It was then that she heard the voices, shushed whispers. Yet no matter how quiet the accusing tones penetrated her hearing, leaving her in no doubt as to where she stood before these great men.

Gritting her teeth, Lyanna turned upon the first of them she saw with a glare. “I am doing everything I can.” That was no lie. “What more would you have of me?” She would wed a man who by all accounts presented a risk, she would do so for her father and the blood that had been spilled and she would avenge him. Somehow. And she would also carry on his plans, his grand scheme to align their house to the other great houses in the kingdoms.

A thousand answers came as one, but all that she could see, having turned to look before her was a yawning grave, stretching out like an awaiting bed. It was not empty. Within it lied her father, saltwater in his hair and upon his face disturbing the fine gain of once smooth skin. She gasped, bringing her hands to her chest, over her heart.

It was her dearest wish that she leap in after him, drag him out and attempt to save him yet again. But that had not worked before. It would not work now. Slowly, she managed to pry her fingers away from the strangely beating drum within her chest and those very limbs reached out for the dead man. She would have likely fallen it were it not for a brisk opening of eyes.

A scream rent the night’s stillness.

Shooting up from her feather-filled mattress, Lyanna fisted a hand over her wildly beating heart, trying to ignore the beads of sweat crawling down the back of her neck, sliding underneath the collar of her sleepwear. Her lungs dragged air in greedily, unseeing eyes scrutinising the unyielding dark surrounding her from all sides. But no dead awaited her and no crypt flagstones rested beneath her.

She was in her tent. Relief washed over her. Gripping strongly at it, she crawled her way out from beneath the heavy pelts and stood to her feet. Flattened grass blades tickled her heels. The cool air stroked her to calming. It had been just a silly night terror. Nothing to be upset about.

Even telling herself such words, she did not manage to put it entirely out of her mind. Pacing the lengths of the generous tent while trying to keep from knocking anything over proved enough of a distraction though for her breathing to return to normal and cool clarity to drag her away from whatever monsters lurked in the shadows. And after some time she did feel the better for it, returning to sitting upon the mattress, amid the mounds of furs. Uncomfortably damp cloth clung to her, but she hadn’t any intention of doing aught but hiding beneath the covers. Which she did with alacrity. The sun was not yet up, yet it was much too early to bother her mare. And Marsia must not know she had had a night terror or the poor thing might offer to share her mattress and she would not get a wink of sleep as she thought it her duty to comfort Lyanna.

So, quite firmly stuck with the option of lying on her back and awaiting the return of the sun, she drew the covers to her chin, ignoring the chill, and burrowed her head into the pillow beneath her head. The trick was to find some other matter to consume her thoughts. Something like the kiss she had received. Would he kiss her again? Might be in whatever way the servant girl found fit to complain about? It had to be something thrilling for though they complained, their meaningful looks told another story entirely.

Her fingers climbed to her lips, probing against the soft flesh. Her eyes closed. She might like it for she’d liked the kisses to this point, whatever there was of them to like. And she would be a good wife. He did not seem the sort to expect her to live in his pocket. From what she had seen, he kept a distance between himself and all others, even his closest friends. Her fingers pulled back, leaving her lips free.

Time trickled by, very slowly, as it was wont to do whenever she waited for something to happen. Lyanna was not concerned though. She could not hurry it up any more than she could ordain the future. In its own time, the first rays of dawn came.

Without much sound, she rolled out from beneath the furs. She disrobed slowly and moved to a small table upon which water and clean cloths were. Lyanna went about her morning routine, thoughts running through her mind; she shivered but did not desist until every last trace of salt was gone. And then she dressed herself in a serviceable plain gown. She would ride sideways on this day, if only to see whether that had an effect on her prospective beau.

Her mind made up, she looked about the tent, in hopes that anything would grab her attention. There was nothing. This forced to conclude little of value for her mission was left behind, she put on her half-boots. The waking world awaited her arrival with clear skies and a soft golden light spilling over the rolling hills. She smiled at the wind ruffling her hair. She’d not plaited it precisely for that reason.

Not many people milled about. A few of her brother’s men were awake. They greeted her with varying degrees of wakefulness and she nodded back, mumbling about how she was going for a walk. Since they’d gathered for a tourney and not some sort of brawl, no one saw the need for some companion or for running to her brother. Most likely they assumed she would return soon enough. Which Lyanna did plan upon, truth be told. A smile flittered across her lips as she jumped over a puddle. The day did not look so bad after all.

The stables had not disappeared during the night. Lyanna glanced at the well-appointed structure as a flicker of something gave her pause. Rather like a dark cloud rolling by. She gazed up at the skies, buy nay, they were still clear. The cold slacked its grip momentarily before releasing her completely. Remnants of her night terror, she whispered to herself, picking up her pace.

The stable doors were slightly ajar. She could hear voices from within but failed to make out what exactly the words were. The tone, though, was easy enough to guess. A scowl planted itself firmly upon her lips. She pushed one of the doors fully open, expecting activity would stop and any teasing would be forgotten for the time being. Except that she had severely underestimated what might wait beyond.

In truth, no teasing went on near the end of the long structure. Three young men, Lyanna would guess about her age, circles a curled-up figure, laughing, presumably at the pain they put their victim through. She eyes the scene with mounting concern, eyes finding among the discarded objects a familiar banner. Her lips thinned as concerned turned into fury.

Leaping into the fray, she picked up a discarded sword off of the ground. “You there. What do you think you are doing? That is my brother’s bannerman you are abusing!” She swung her weapon at the fisrt of the boys, narrowly missing as she had the good sense to didge.

Clearly caught off guard, the squires stared dumbly at her. But Lyanna had no plans of waiting until they decided whether she was indeed some lofty lady. Both hands gripped the hilt as she cut through the air menacingly, realising with some chagrin that they were three and she was only one. The man on the ground did not look as though he was going to be much help.

But then, mercy, the leader of the small party raised his hands as though to say they would not harm her. “My lady, we–“

“Silence!” she snapped. “Leave. Now!”

She must have put the necessary force behind the command because three pairs of eyes widened before they took themselves off at a pace which would put even the fastest horse to shame. She dropped her weapon, flinging it away from her, before approaching the battered man upon the ground. Without much care, she dropped to her knees and shook his shoulder. “Hey you, can you hear me?”

A lamentable groan tore itself from his throat. “You have to sit up. There is no way I may carry you otherwise.” Might be she should run and search for a stablehand to help her.

Thankfully, bleary eyes opened in greeting. The injured man blinked. “My lady.”

She knew him. It struck her like an arrow. “We cannot continue sitting here.” He nodded, a garbled sound accompanying the movement. “Can you sit up?” One of his hands braced itself against the ground. The other followed. He pushed himself up with her aid. “Where does it hurt?”

From a cursory glance she could tell he had endured much at the hands of those boys. Cuts and scrapes ran along every inch of skin she could see. His hand pressed against his side and she saw it come back faintly smudged.

She could hardly conduct any examination of his wounds in here. Someone might come along. With a long sigh, she stood to her feet and bent t the waist to drag him up as well. He helped as much as he was capable, arm settling over her shoulder. While he did not rest his weight upon her entirely, she could tell it was dreadfully painful for him to move about all that much. “The tents are not far off,” she managed between deep breaths. “If only you could endure until we have arrived.”

“I shall do my best.” He sounded like a man grown. Lyanna decided against considering that in too much detail. She had picked him up, it fell to her to help him. And it would be understood that she had simply acted in the interest of her brother who had a duty to his sworn men that whilst under his care harm would greatly suffered, if at all.    

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having somehow managed to live through the fay with many a pair of eyes, Lyanna was glad when finally came the time for feasting. All day Brandon and her grandmother had hounded her, while Ned, though he attempted to aid, did so with the most blighted expression on her face. That in turn caused her to grow more and more protective of her guest.

“You should enter the lists,” Ned was saying to the young man. “They will be forced to offer an apology if you defeat their masters.”

Howland Reed bit his lower lip, staring between brother and sister with his face a deep shade of crimson. “I haven’t such talent at my disposal. If I should lose, it will be much worse.”

She forcefully slammed her cup onto the table top. A few droplets of wine landed upon the cloth beneath. “Those beastly boys. If it would not rise so many eyebrows I would go and demand an apology myself.” Brandon had refused to do it for her, stating that any bannerman of his was to protect his own honour as he saw fit, but he did offer to furnish their guest with a suit or armour.

From her other side, Marsia broke conversation with grandmother. “If you I can ask one of the boys if–“ She held one hand up, silencing the girl.

“It is not our affair. Young Howland Reed may choose his own course of action.” Despite her words, she knew following such an impulse would only give rise to speculation. She had her attention firmly fixed upon the Prince. Bad enough that she never showed up for their morning interview. To be seen passionately defending another man would doubtlessly cement a wrong conclusion in his mind.

As it was, she could barely hold back from sighing as her eyes landed upon the long table on the dais. He’d not looked upon her once. And she had gone to the rouble of making herself as pretty as possible. Might be he was annoyed wit her, but she could certainly explain if only he allowed it. All he had to do was look at her. Her fingers dug into the delicate folds of the kirtle, mind willing him to look.

He was speaking to Ser Dayne’s sister, apparently having a good time of it. She delicately brushed the bottom of one eye hoping to reduce the sting.

“You needn’t be so obvious,” grandmother’s grating voice snapped her out of her dark hole.

She turned the full heat of her glare upon the older woman. “I was not. There was something in my eyes. I doped to dislodge it without making too much of a fuss.”    

Before their conversation could advance beyond that, they were stopped by a jolly looking Arthur Dayne who simply saw it as his due to be greeted with warmth and interest. Not that he was not perfectly validated in that.

Seating himself in the available chair Ned had just vacated at a look from their older brother, Arthur leaned over to whisper for her ears only. “I never thought you could be half as wicked as all that.” It registered in her mind that he was amused, but she remained stock still. “Quite the collection of hearts you are gathering, my lady.”

Prickled, she drew away from him to serve the man with one of the fiercest looks she could muster. “A fine jester you make, ser.” He raised one eyebrow at her. “Why have you come here?” Brandon gave her an horrified look. She ground her teeth together.

Arthur, apparently nonplussed at her reaction, wound an arm around the back of her chair in a most inappropriate manner. “I am merely trying to be a good friend,” he whispered in the same conspiratorial voice. “So I thought it wise to bring to your attention that your despondency has been noted.” Her eyes snapped to the Prince. He was still talking to Lady Ashara but as he stood taller than even her impressive height, his eyes were upon her table.

Breath coming in short gasps, she avoided his gaze. “It is cruel to give false hope.”

The Dornishman simply laughed and removed his arm. And before Lyanna could figure out what precisely was happening, the Prince was brought a gilded harp and cajoled into playing for the gathering. “Listen carefully, my lady.”

She did as instructed. And wished she had had the presence of mind to think beyond her own fears at the moment. The low notes filled the room, casting all else into silence. She leaned forth, as though whatever distance put between them could be obliterated. Rhaegar was looking at the harp, not at her. And it was just as well, she thought, when she felt the first of the wet droplets sliding down her cheeks. She surprised herself by acknowledging the tears, hands coming up to wipe at the moist tracks.

As though he had touched something deep within her and raised the dam, tears poured forth, choking her. Unable to do more than stare, she dearly hoped no one paid her mind. But then, once she managed to look about, she saw that more than one woman showed signs of being affected.  Somewhat calmed, she allowed herself to be lulled in a sense of security as the song came to an end. Pleased with the performance, the crowds heaped adoration upon the young Prince. He took it in his own stride, seemingly unaffected beyond a pleased smile. But then he was used to it, she thought even as a hand fell to her shoulder.

“Might be some fresh air.” She caught that of the exchange she had so carelessly pushed aside between her elder brother and the Dornish knight.

Whatever her desires, she had to push them aside and stand with Ser Arthur, who for all his charming manner was not the man she wanted at the moment. But he took no notice of that and instead led her from the hall, into the relatively more peaceful gardens.

Others were about but the two of them were not approached. Lyanna was thankful for that. She wiped at the remnants of her tears. The knight made no attempt to engage her in conversation, which meant she had to. But just as she opened her mouth to speak, the peace was shattered.

The Prince, having doubtlessly followed from within, gave Arthur leave to be off to his own ploys. All her work. Gone. Lyanna could have died on the spot. She doubted her face had lost any off its redness. Nevertheless, she was faced with the one man she wanted to impress but seemed unable to and her tongue felt thick in her mouth.

To compound her shame, he kindly wiped what remained of her little emotional spectacle from her face with a pristine square of poplin. And there was such a look in his eyes that she thought she might burst into tears yet again. Like the hen-witted pea-goose that she was, Lyanna simply could not remain silent. She caught his wrist, the material covered hand hovering just before her face. “I was going to come, but then Howland–“

“Howland?” He chocked his head to the side; she choked on her explanation.

“He is bannerman to my brother. I could not leave him there injured.”

“Your brother is a most fortunate man to inspire such undivided loyalty.” That sounded like a compliment. “I wonder, would you be–“

Instinctively she knew what he wanted to know. “Yes.”

He drew back, hand falling to his side. Lyanna bit into her lower lip to stifle the frustration threatening to take her over. “We shall forgo further interviews during the morning hours.” A scream crawled forth from the back of her throat. Her lips clamped together mutinously.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she managed.

“You must allow me some consolation though.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Should your brother be amenable, of course.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it, drop a line and all that and whatever else. I'm off to, you know, be literally Hitler to a few deranged folk around here and have a good laugh.


	3. Scene III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have done this when still had traffic. Lol. Off to enjoy my b-day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brandon regarded her sudden meekness with a healthy dose of suspicion. Lyanna expected her prospective husband would have fallen much easier for the lack of antagonism. Alas, her brother knew her too well to be taken in by a bowed head. “And you have no notion of why he has a sudden interest in walking with you?”

“I cannot read the man’s thoughts.” Her mutinous answer earned her a glower. Not that she was particularly concerned on that account. He would not give her that much trouble provided she at least attempted a feasible explanation. “I thought you would be glad that I managed the feat.”

She looked up in time to see the young man grit his teeth in earnest frustration. “Do not be obstinate. Have you or have you not?” He was particularly testy. Lyanna wondered whether that had to do with his own conscience or with the knowledge that, for once, he did not have to convince her and thus found the position uncomfortable in the extreme.

Had she exerted herself enough to make it clear she was, despite any earlier indications to the contrary, not at all opposed to settling into her role of mistress of a keep, he would not have been half as concerned. As matters stood, she understood at long last why it was that her contrary behaviour might have benefited from taking a secondary place. “I believe he found something to his liking and wishes further acquaintance. Is that so difficult for you to believe; that a man might find me appealing?” It stung. But then he was her brother and might not be persuaded to see any attractive qualities in a sister, of all people. As it should be. Nevertheless, rationalisation failed to soothe the pain. She drew in a sharp breath and looked into the man’s eyes.

“He as good as said he was not interested in wedding. Anyone.” With such an emphasis upon the last word, she had to wonder whether that was an apology. “If at all possible, I would rather you not squander your chance. I’ve no doubt he is a charming man–“

“I am not your Barbrey.” That shut him up. For the moment. Lyanna’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Even if the man had not been the soul of propriety, I promise you, my lord, my skirts would not have lifted as much as an inch above the ground.”

“Lyanna!” Crass or otherwise the reminder had the desired effect. “I am a man. I know how men think. You will not encourage him on this walk. Have I made myself clear?” She shrugged. “If I have to set one of my men after you, be certain I shall.”

“What a clod you are. I as good as promised I shouldn’t do a thing to dent my prospects.” His expression battled between thoughtful and hopeful. “It is but a walk. In a garden where there will be people aplenty. If His Grace means to carry out some nefarious plan of seduction in sight of all and sundry, I daresay he is daft, twice as much as any Targaryen that ever lived. As for myself, I’ve perfectly good legs.”

Teasingly, she kicked up the heavy hems of the skirts. Brandon tsked but did not follow that with anything other than a warning glance. Lyanna stood. “Keep to a busy path. Regardless of His Grace’s desires, you are to set the terms in this and if he insists on anything else, simply turn back and leave.”

“Indeed, as good a plan as any, brother.” Ned, who had been sitting upon a stool closer to the small writing table, sighed, releasing upon the lacquered surface a small note. “What is it?” she felt compelled to ask. “Has Lady Ashara anything to do with this?”

His morose expression persisted even as he denied the possibility. Having already climbed to her feet, Lyanna merely indicated that he ought to serve in his capacity as a brother and see her without. “I find the prospect of walking by myself quite daunting. Join me.” No one dared point out she could have taken Marsia along. Or grandmother.  Good that they did not; she would not have shied away from dragging Ned around.

They emerged together into the sun. She tipped her head backwards, allowing the rays to glide against her skin. Ned gently urged her along. She came without much complaint, tightening her hold on the arm he proffered. “I would not mind if you did develop a healthy dose of affection for Lady Ashara, if only she showed the same regard for you.”

He strained beneath her touch. “I have no wish to discuss my relationship with Lady Ashara, sister, with you, or with any others. It would be good of you to remember that in the future.”

Lyanna came to an intrepid halt, forcing him to adapt as she had adapted to him. “I do not appreciate that tone of voice.” The words were spoken deliberately slow. “Mark my words, to me you are the most wonderful of men, you and Brandon and Benjen. Though tell them none of this. I cannot abide their superiority when they know themselves admired. But it remains that if you have seen fit to give some woman your heart, I want to know that. And she had better have the good sense to return your affection.” Such was the flint she rained upon him even as her fingers tirelessly brushed at invisible creases upon his garment’s arm. “And you, in turn, might have the good sense to discuss matters of the heart with me.”

Her stunned brother kept himself scrupulously still as she set about mending all the plucking she had done. But he was not silent. “Deeper than any lake I’ve ever known,” he muttered. “You have been spending time with grandmother.” The accusation was not groundless. Lyanna stared into his eyes, daring him to add to that complaint. “But if I am to do as I am told, you must discuss your affairs with me in return. Only fair.”

She held one hand up in silent surrender. Her compliance would have to be earned. “Is it about Lady Ashara, then? Truly?”

“I find her most confusing.” He pouted. On Brandon it might have looked attractive. On him it still held an air of childish rebellion. He was not yet so long in the tooth he might be forgiven such displays. “I fear I am pinning my hopes where there are none.” She feared the same. Lyanna voiced none of that; electing to squeeze his arm encouragingly. “That is the extent to which I am willing to speak upon the matter.” No pressure came from her when it became apparent she would not gain more.

“Is it very difficult, having to approach someone?” Rhaegar had looked quite dashing going about engaging her attention. It was most curious. Not for a single moment had she considered what it must have cost him to come to her, for in truth, no matter her subsequent boldness, it had been he who approached, marking his interest rather clearly.

Had it been she to do so, what would that have felt like? Her skin prickled uncomfortably with the thought. She envisioned herself taking the first step and faltering. Not for a lack of courage. If she had enough gumption to grab a man’s face between her hands and kiss him, she could surely form a few measly words. But there was a fear within her, a fear that she would fall short of whatever mark that had been arbitrarily set beforehand. And her insides went cold with dread at the thought of goinf against some untouchable paragon. Lyanna was not foolish enough to think that any woman might do. After all, His Grace was her elder by some years, allowed his pick of women no doubt and yet he had not settled upon anyone.

The pressure built in the pit of her stomach until she found herself quite in knots. And she was merely considering the prospect of courting someone. Good gods, how did men do it? How did her brother do it? The urge to ask was violently pushed back. Something told her he would not appreciate such questions.

Ned answered. “You might as well ask if the waves find it difficult to crash upon the shore.” She started at the frankness, to think of her stalwart brother as something as ephemeral as a wave rankled. “Yet one shall never get by on pity. Weakness is an ever cruel mistress.”

Her thoughts strayed to her brother’s friends. Was that not why she despised them, after all? Seeing the simple wisdom in her brother’s words she did her best to move around it. “Then you must be strong. There is nothing for it.”

They had meantime resumed their languid pace. “Tell me truly, what did you do to engage the Prince?”

“It is rather what he did himself,” she answered without much thought. “Doubtlessly, you will wish to warn me, as Brandon has, that men and their intentions must be held under harsh scrutiny.”

“Not I. I fear that as the staid brother the best I can do is encourage discrimination on your part. If you have seen evidence that serious intentions exist, then I remain open.” He paused and she, instinctively, held her breath. “But I do wish you would not allow yourself to be taken in. His Grace is without doubt capable of stirring all manners of emotion, yet if you would only look about you. There are better options. Safer.”

“More easily charmed?” Her question was met with a blank stare. “I suppose I must endure it. Very well, tell me of these safer options.” The truth of it was there were no safer options for what she had in mind. Lyanna had sworn to herself that the man of highest rank would be the target of her matrimonial intentions. And so he would. So he was.

“Robert for one.” Her expression must have made the content of her thoughts clear. Need became defensive. “That sorry business about his daughter, you need not mind it. And she did not become all that worse for it. All in all he is not that much different from other men.”

For a brief moment she considered burying in her heart all that she wished to say on the matter of his friend. “Robert is ever charming. And gay. And in love with life. He would doubtlessly carry on as he’s always done and truthfully I could not fault him for it as he has made not one move to disguise his character.”

“He is a good man. A man I trust.” And that she understood. Robert was Ned’s closest friend, supplanting, she thought, even their eldest brother in importance. “A man I would trust with your happiness.”

“Then you are a fool.” Though the words were harsh she took care to modulate her voice so that the blow softened before it landed. “I would not trust any woman with your happiness. Not as far as I could throw her, certainly. I trust you, though, to find that one woman with whom even the bleakest of moments will be tolerable.” She wondered whether her distrust was merited. Better safe than sorry.

“You could not tolerate any bleak moments with Robert?” Her heart warmed ever so slowly. He was trying.

“His natural born children bother me little enough. I will not say they do not bother me at all; what wife would wish such evidence paraded before her. But had he the strength to gather these children to him, and care for them as a father should, at the very least I could have respected that.” Life could at times throw unexpected difficulties one’s way. She understood. “I do not want a man I have to change at any rate. If he wishes to change than that is on him. I want someone I am in no immediate hurry to change.”

“What a paragon you are.” She detected admiration mixed with worry. Unsure whether he believed the words or not, but equally unconcerned as it was a truth to her which was all that really mattered at the moment, she simply murmured assent. “I will take you no further than the main road. His Grace may easily find you there.”

She looked down upon the front of her gown contemplatively. “You are not upset, I hope.” Having not looked up to conform as much, she had a deep suspicion that he was shaking his head. In truth, had the Prince not been available, she might well have turned her attention to Robert Baratheon. He was easily the easiest target. It would not take all that much to sway him, if she set her mind to it, for Robert seemed ever in such disposition as to be swayed by women. And he would have wedded her too. If only because Ned was his constant companion and she was the little sister.

“Why would I be?” His voice was soft, not rising above a whisper. “I am going for a ride. When I return, I expect you too shall have done so as well.” She nodded. “There it is.”

The walk was a short one, lengthy enough for a brief discussion but not for more. And true enough, the main path opened up before them in a burst of life and colour. Lyanna plastered a gentle smile upon her lips. Half of it at the very least was genuine. She enjoyed being outdoors, although the multitude of people left her somewhat adrift.

The Prince was there as well, caught in conversation with a young man who was a stranger to her. But he took notice of her and bowed out almost as soon. A blush coloured her rosy. Eager, was he? If a pair too many of eyes followed him, Lyanna did not catch that. She allowed her brother and His Grace to exchange a few pleasantries, waiting patiently for Ned to notice some acquaintance that he might leave her. Her brother did just that with only a hint of awkwardness. Someday, she told herself, he would grow into the role. Nevertheless, her fingers squeezed his arm before she let go. His grateful smile told that she had done well, by him at least.

“You must be very close to your brothers,” the Prince spoke. There was a small curve to his lips. Almost as though he thought to smile but the effort was too great. Still, it did not look a struggle in the least.

“I never supposed we were any closer than other siblings.” The shrug which followed was met with a very nearly blank stare. She did hate that she could not read him. But then she’d been the one who did not want some child clinging to her skirts. “Why that impression, Your Grace?”

“Mayhap ‘tis but the way your lord speaks of you.” Confusion swamped her for a brief moment, no more than a heartbeat truly. Lyanna cocked her head to the side. “It was clear, to me, that you are held in high esteem.”

“That is not always the case, I take it.” His parents were brother and sister. Lyanna considered that as she set her hand upon his arm, just in the crook.

“No.” They skirted along the edges, aware their progress was being watched. Not overly worried that their words might be overheard, she adjusted her grip. “And you, I trust, hold your siblings in equal admiration.”

How would he know? She could nod her head and lie and he would not know the difference. Her smile widened. “I have rarely had cause for quarrel with them.” There had been father’s death. Her smile almost faltered. She would not speak of father. “That could mean one of two things; I am either the most compliant of sister, or they are much too lenient.”

He chuckled. “It would not surprise me if it were so.” She got the distinct feeling he was considering the last option. “Will I see you later, in the stands?” The King and his family sat separately. Lyanna gave him a wide-eyed stare. “I am hoping, you see, that you are anticipating what is to come on the morrow.”

“No. I do not see. What is to come on the morrow?” Her heart did that silly thing where it felt as though it were aflutter. She very nearly raised one hand to the wayward organ, as if to catch it mid-flight.

“I suppose I deserve that.” She neither agreed, nor disagreed. “The last I had you for an audience, I forfeited victory. I do not mean to do the same.” She thought of the strand of hair he’d taken from her.

“It could be that Your Grace lost either way,” she murmured. It was at that point that she noticed they had moved to a more secluded spot. Her hand fell away from his arm. Lyanna waited with baited breath for his answer.

“It might help if I have some incentive.” It was his hand that found hers, the strength of his fingers translating into a firm, kind grip. Not that he had any need to attempt capture; she would not try to evade, except might be if he demanded too much of her. Her eyes fell to their entwined hands. He raised them to chest-level, then slowly the back of her hand met his lips. A brush, no more, all within the bounds of propriety. Why, then, did her heart skip a beat?

Instinctively she swayed towards him. “You are rather certain of your victory. Might be you would do well enough without any incentives.” Even in their secluded spot, there were still eyes enough to see. She could not give the sort of incentive she wished to. Lyanna drew back. “In any case, I shall wait patiently for the outcome before giving anything.”

They continued their walk, speaking of inconsequential things. Lyanna enjoyed it, more his nearness than any small talk. She found such subjects tiresome, but the feel of his arm beneath her fingertips was as much a grounding element as she could ever wish for. So she held on and hope that his decision was cemented, for she dared not ask, fearing to appear too keen. In due time. All in good time. They ended their interview upon a high note with Lyanna being returned to her brother’s encampment.

Her grandmother had been waiting.

“Well, girl, you have done admirably well.” Her teeth gritted at the compliment which she felt held just a hint of malice. She would not have her day ruined. Lyanna excused herself. “Indeed. It is not quite the thing to celebrate a success before certainty is here.”

“Apologies, my lady. I fear I may have turned my leg just a tad.” If the woman was convinced or simply let her off for her own purposes, she did not much care. What mattered was that she could make her way to her tent. Until she recalled that she had not seen Ned about. Was his return delayed?

Calling one of Brandon’s men over, she asked about Ned. He had not returned. Biting into her lower lip she eyed his tent. Might be there was something in there. Her breath hitched ever so slightly. Tremulous hands gripped at the heavy folds of her skirts and she started towards it. Then stopped. And the again she took a decisive step until she was not walking but doing a strange cross between it and running. Her feet carried her to the entrance and without warning she stepped within, expecting she did not know what.

Contrary to her suspicions, Ned’s tent held little of outward interest. There was also no sight of their guest to be beheld. Had he gone riding as well? Lyanna entered deeper within her brother’s lair and nearly stumbled over a stray gauntlet. Her eyes fell to the object. She bent to pick it up.

It was part of her Ned’s armour set. She traced the filigree decorating the cuff. The leaves were not bothered by her nail scraping at them. “He should take better care of you.” Only for a brief moment did it feel strange to speak to it as though it were alive. She moved towards the chest and knelt to better work upon the latch. It took no more than a couple of tries to unlatch it and open the coffer.

“What?” It was not quite the thing to speak to herself, of course, but she could not help the exclamation. What in gods’ good grace had he done with the armour? He truly ought to have more care. It could not be good and it had been a gift for his nameday. Brandon would not be at all pleased if he were to come upon the sight. She set about straightening the bits and pieces she found. But before long it occurred to her that the set was incomplete.

Thinking she had somehow pushed the rest of it to the bottom, Lyanna picked every single piece out, strewing them about herself. But no, it truly was as it had seemed to her. Ned’ssuit of armour was incomplete. Consternation held her in its careful grip as she replaced her findings and shut the lid over them before climbing to her feet and staring at the trunk. Ought she go to Brandon with this> There was a thief about. Ought she go to Ned?

What if her own coffers had been raided?

She hurried back across the length between her brother’s tent and her own, skirts thrown in a flurry of inelegant fluttering. She did not care overmuch about that though as she pushed the tent flap out of the way and stumbled within, her feet taking her straight to the line of chests. She opened them one by one, rifling through their contents.

Had aught been missing she would have known, Lyanna told herself even as she struggled to recall what it was that she had taken along. To no avail, the dresses were all within and not a single bit of gold was missing. As for her mother’s embroidery, it rested at the bottom of the largest chest, along with the hoops and needles. Just as well. Relief flooded her.

Lyanna stood to her feet, bringing one hand to wipe at the beads of sweat forming upon her forehead. The Myrish lace sewn upon her cuff dampened slightly. It made no matter, no one would see the inside of her wrists. Her eyes alit upon the dark spot. Ned would have to be told. Might be Brandon as well. Much as she would like to pretend a lack of knowledge, it could not be. That suit of armour was still a gift even if Ned refused to put it on. Just because he would have no cause to unpack the thing and strut about in it did not mean he deserved to be robbed.

Her mind worked upon the notion awhile longer even as she sat down upon the mattress, bringing her hands together upon her lap. First, she would calm herself. Appearing before anyone in such a state would only set her like to that of a madwoman. Her breathing slowed, heartrate returning to normal after brief resistance.

Once she found her feet, in spite of the worry clawing at her insides, she strode to the tent’s entrance. Without the sun still shone, bathing the world in its warm glow. She took a couple of steps before she could properly enjoy the feeling. And not a moment sooner did she see her brother that her limbs hastened to close the gap between them, his name upon her lips a chant.

Surprise registered upon his face as she crashed into him before he could stop her. Howland Reed came after him, carrying a bundle. Lyanna paid that one no mind, she drew her brother aside and whispered in his ear, “This is horrible, Ned. I think we’ve a thief among us.”

White-faced, he stared down into her eyes. “A thief?”

“Yes. I was just–“ She stopped short. “I wanted to ask you something so I entered your tent and found upon the ground your gauntlet. Someone had stolen pieces of the armour in your chest.”

If possible, his face became even paler. “I will take care of that.” But to her ears the voice was faint. She had expected anger, not this. Grabbing onto his arm, she was about to ask after his reaction, but Ned simply shook her off. “No. Do not worry. I said I would take care of it and I will. And you, has anything been taken from you?”

“Not that I can tell. But Ned, I do have something in mind.” He paused, staring expectantly at her. “I will stay behind, to see if the thief returns. You may go search for your armour.”

“You won’t–“

“Of course I shan’t approach him, in fact, I shall pretend sleep.” Understanding flittered across his face and he started shaking his head. “Come now, we are brother and sister. I will simply say I turned my ankle and in our haste you carried me to your tent. No one will be the wiser.”

She saw the conflict in his face and waited for its resolution. It did not fail to come. “No. I cannot.” Lyanna insisted, but he simply took her by the arm and led her to her own tent. “You will see whether someone approached if you leave the flap pinned. And you may tell Brandon whatever you wish, I will agree with you.”

It had been worth trying, she told herself as Ned left for his own tent. She would excuse herself from attending the joust. After her brothers had left, she would simply move into Ned’s tent and await the arrival of the thief if he dared to return.

So when Brandon came for her at long last, Lyanna knew to sit under her covers, her grandmother knew not to betray her and Brandon, in a charitable mood, said he would leave her to her rest but expected that she would attend on the morrow, which she agreed to without complaint. Pleased that she would be out of harm’s way and busy sleeping, he asked, as an afterthought, whether she wished Marsia to stay with her.

“Do not be absurd,” Lyanna waved her hand dismissively. “Marsia should see the joust. On the morrow I shall undoubtedly feel better.” Marsia tried to question her with a glance but she pretended ignorance and feigned exhaustion, sliding deeper beneath the covers. They left her to her rest after, with a promise to make her excuses. Satisfied that the ruse worked, she thought no more upon the matter and waited the passing of a little while before she made her way back to Ned’s tent.

Her brother’s mattress had been neatly moved to the side to make room for the second one. She had not considered the two would ready themselves for the return with such haste. But then the more she sat in the tent the wearier she grew and for the life of her she could not explain it. Lyanna bit back a sigh. The hours were crawling by and the thief was unlikely to return. She would do better to stretch her legs for a little while.

Before she could act upon such a desire, the tent flap was pushed aside and a dark head poked its way within. So startled was she by the intrusion and the fact she’d heard naught to give the man away that she only half-managed to smother her yelp. It was much too late though. Howland Reed’s wide eyes rested upon her huddled form. He slid in.

“It was you?” Lyanna darted towards him, tugging at the bundle. Sure enough, one of her brother’s gauntlets slid right out. Speechless, she stared. And then understanding ever so slowly dawned upon her. Ned’s fear, the refusal to allow her into his tent, his apparent lack of concern about the armour.

“The King is angered at the daring of a knight carrying the shield of the laughing tree. He thinks someone plots against him.”

Lyanna picked up the gauntlet as he spoke and returned everything to the chest she unlatched with unmistakably frim motions. “We should burn the shield. Do you know where it is?”

She turned in time to see his nod. “Later, after nightfall, I can lead the way.”

Ned stumbled in. His eyes darted between the two of them and chagrin flooded his face. “Feeling better, sister?”

“Much better,” she snapped, slamming the lid of the chest shut. “I hear the joust brought some surprises.”

“Not more so than one expects.” She nodded. There would be time enough to scold him after. “But you mustn’t be up and about even if you are feeling better. Allow me to take you back to your tent.”

Without a member of the Kingsguard made his way towards them, following close on the heels of their brother. Brandon gave them both a sharp look. She was treated to a brief explanation of the surprise which she had missed. Lyanna answered honestly to all the questions put to her, except for one. She did not tell the man what she suspected. Fortunately, even a Kingsguard had no business pestering a lady. The man bowed and made his way around the encampment.

Left with her brothers, she had the distinct feeling that her silence contributed to the unease growing between them.

“On the morrow,” Brandon said finally, “I want all of you sitting next to me. No exceptions.”

She would solve the matter of the shield tonight. Lyanna nodded her head. “Yes, my lord.”

The Lord of Winterfell scrutinised his siblings. Lyanna could tell he was not pleased but dared not ask after his ills.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

She had endured as much as humanly possible. Compared to the first day of feasting, this second evening proved much poorer in engaging her. Lyanna twisted a handkerchief between her fingers, trying to maintain an outward disguise of poise and calm, none of which were particularly easy to do when more than just one pair of eyes stared around with lingering suspicion.

Robert seated himself at her side, a cup of ale in each hand. He pushed one towards her and downed his in one long gulp. “Everyone whispers about the mystery knight.” He’s won the melee, to the surprise of no one. “I swear, whoever the man is, he knows how to steal one’s thunder.”

“And with so very little he has managed to steal the wind from your sails? I would not have expected it of you.” Pretending an interest in her drink, she swirled the cup round and round. “Doubtlessly, it was ill-advised of me to have missed this grand display.”

“I say, where were you, Lyanna? Your brother mentioned you were not feeling well. And your aunt said something about a turned ankle.” He glanced down at her feet pointedly. They were crossed at the ankles. Lyanna licked her lower lip out of habit and assumed a more decent position. “It does not look swollen; neither of your ankles does.”

“I merely though I turned it. I was wrong.” So much for maintaining a calm façade. She took a sip of the ale. It was sweeter than she had expected. Had someone poured honey in it? No matter, she liked the taste well enough.

“That is good then.” A flicker of relief sparked to life. He had not meant what she thought he had. “It means you will doubtlessly be in fine form and catch the mystery knight yourself.”

“Only if he appeared before me with a crown in hand.” While her voice had been small and rather deadpan, Robert made her out perfectly. And he laughed that boisterous laugh of his, fit to make the earth rumble. “I say this is all nonsense. The poor man, whoever he is, did no more than other men have done before him.”

“Sure enough,” Robert agreed, holding his cup out as wine was poured into it by a passing servant. “But he might have known we would make sport of finding out his identity. Only a fool appears thus before a crowd and expects none to take notice of him.”

Bristling at the insult, Lyanna threw him a hard stare. Robert did not notice and the foolishness of her actions caught up to her before she could alert him. Contrite, she returned to her drink and would have attempted civil conversation before her table was besieged by yet another man bent on finding the identity of the mystery knight. The gods conspired to have her break down, she trusted.

Richard Lonmouth was not unknown to her. She greeted him with proper decorum and maintained her cool demeanour until he opened his mouth to speak to Robert. Heat gathered uncomfortably beneath her breast and she sat up, with a murmur. The men were caught up in their conversation that her slipping away was accepted with a disinterested nod and she was more than grateful to see Brandon dancing with Lady Ashara just as Ned conversed with one of Lord Whent’s sons. Grandmother had retreated, with Marsia in tow. No one would mind if she were to take a short walk without, provided that she was not gone long.

Scarcely had she stepped without though that her vision was filled with the one man she did not want to see at the moment, the same man she longed to see, on the other hand. He must have wondered without and was just returning. Lyanna thought to make her curtsies and hurry off, for he did not look in a mood to talk.

“I see your ankle has recovered.” A furious blush stole over her cheeks. How many people had that lie been repeated to? The coolness of his tone belied the apparent concern.

“It was not as bad as I thought it was.” He was the King’s son. He could help her. “Your Grace must have felt the need for some fresh air as well.” What an inane thing to say. Lyanna forced a smile upon her lips and made to move past. His eyes flashed and for just a moment her skin crawled. But whatever she had seen in there, it was gone and he lifted his arm for her to take.

“I know I promised we would not hold any assignations, but surely it cannot be seen as such when we have quite accidentally stumbled one upon the other.” He led her to the dimly lit path. Lyanna offered no protest. “Was it truly the heat that brought you out just now, my lady?” he asked softly, the voice slicing her with its thin edge. “Or might be it was guilt.”

She shuddered. “What a thought Your Grace. Though I was very sorry to have missed the joust this day, I will not make the same mistake twice.” They stood beneath the shade of a great old tree. The flimsy light from around was scant protection and he had walked straight into whatever trap had been set. Striving to keep appearances, she made a show of looking about her. “One can hardly believe there are so very many people gathered here when such silence reigns.”

He stared intently back at her, not saying one word in reply. She cleared her throat and turned her attention to the gardens yet again. Did he have to be so confusing? Something brushed against the nape of her neck. Her spine straightened instinctively but before long she leaned into his touch, the insistence scalding and heartening at the same time. And it was just a simple touch. Heat welled up within her again. It would be rather unacceptable to start fanning herself, she suspected; before she could make up her mind though, she was released.

“I will speak to your brother again, after the tourney is at an end. I wanted you to know.” It sounded like a warning. Lyanna whirled to face him. He looked out into the creeping darkness. “On the morrow you will be seated at your brothers’ side.” And that had been an order if she was not mistaken. Her lips flattened in a straight line. “Keep in mind, my lady, that a jest is good and well just as long as ‘tis not pushed to the extremes.”

Did he think she had deliberately set out to trick him? Her hands settled upon his wrist as his eyes settled upon her. He held her stare as she raised the beringed hand to her lips. She chose the signet ring he wore to bestow a kiss upon. It was the sort of kiss, the more intimate sort, she could get away with. She then brushed her cheek against the backs of his fingers. “As Your Grace wishes.” She hoped that might be enough to soothe whatever pride she gad bruised.  Lyanna still kept his wrist between her hands when his free hand came to the curtain of her hair-fall. He held a portion of it between thumb and forefinger.

Hope rose to before unreached heights. Lyanna kept her expectations tightly locked behind her softly smiling visage. Would he lean in? Would she rise on her tiptoes?

The Prince let go. She fell back from him, the string of disappointment punishment enough. “What I wish and what is allowed are much too further apart.” And just like that he had her in the palm of his hand again. Yet she was not willing to give in so easily. He enjoyed playing the game with her. She did not, however, enjoy the teasing.

“I must away, Your Grace. My brothers are sure to be looking for me.” He did not stop her. Neither did he follow. It would, might be, not have been quite so scandalous to enter together. But she was grateful he did not push the bounds of propriety. The gods only knew how Brandon would react. It was not as though she had not seen him drinking that eve.

Her absence, it turned out, had not been marked enough to prompt action on anyone’s part. Robert and Richard had departed and were trying to outdrink a few other men. Ned, on the other hand, sat where Robert had and at his side laughed Lady Ashara, her eyes shining with mirth. Ned was smiling back at her. Hand fluttering to her chest, Lyanna veered towards an empty spot near a lancet. From there she could watch the scene unfold before her.

Howland joined her, offering a cup. She took it. Sweet wine spilled upon her tongue. “I shall come after your brother falls asleep.” She nodded her assent.

“I will wait then.” They sat together side by side, content to watch the world spin madly on about them.

 

 

 

 

 

   

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clad in breeches and a dark woollen cloak, Lyanna peered into the gaping darkness beyond the flap. It might have been a tad better to have light with her, but even a candlestick could alert the whole camp. She rubbed her hands together, hoping to counter the ice growing beneath her skin. Clammy fingers twined together.

Whooshing sounds came from without. The tent flap was pushed back. She did not jump. After all, the Crannogman had told her he would come. “Howland?”

“Yes.” She felt his fingers wrapping around her wrist. “It’s a good cloak. I almost missed you.” Nodding dumbly, she followed along as the man pulled her into the moonlight. Though only a thin crescent dominated the night sky, there was still enough silvery light for her to make out her companion’s general features.

“The shield.” Howland shook his head and pushed a finger to her lips, silencing all but her breathing.

“Apologies, my lady. ‘Twould be better to not speak.” She could not argue with that. “Follow close behind,” he whispered. Not that she had planned to do otherwise.

Trailing him in the manner a shadow would, she could barely hold back from reaching out. It had to be the darkness and the lack of sound. True, crickets sang in the backdrop, reminding her that she was walking out of the safety of her brother’s camp to go trampling in the woods, as it were, with a virtual stranger.

Howland Reed was hardly the fiercest of men and seeing him lying helplessly on the ground had diminished some of her apprehension, but now that it was just him and her, the sickening feeling returned. She knew nothing about him, nothing to encourage such mindless trust beside the fact that he was Brandon’s bannerman. That was just borrowing trouble on her part, she told herself a few moments later as they reached the treeline. Her mind was playing tricks on her, trying to convince her danger lurked where there was none. Her musings, benign or otherwise, were cut short as they entered the narrower paths which snaked through the trees, covered by roots and tall grass and mystery.

If ever there was a perfect opportunity for mischief, such a night would be it. The place Reed led her to was some manner of grove, a dip in the soil as though something very heavy had settled upon it and pressed it inwards, towards the centre. Almost like a giant’s toe.   

He knelt by one of the tall trees and his hand slid beneath the roots. She watched as he pulled out the oddly painted shield. Even in the dim light the grinning face of the weirwood chilled her to the very core. Nevertheless, her feet remained rooted. The shield was pressed into her arms before long. “I will gather some twigs. Keep to the shadows until my return.”

“Hurry.” Something told her the relative peace would be disturbed if they lingered too long. Misfortune had a way of finding those who least wished its presence.

Lyanna hugged the shield to her chest and sat I the tall grass. There was little use in hiding behind trees. Even with her deficient height, she would still find it difficult to go by unnoticed. At least among the grass blades she could crawl to safety and if she was quiet enough no one would be the wiser.

A shiver shook her.

The grass swished.

She clutched the shield tighter to her chest, nails scarping against the paint. She wondered if it would come off from the abuse.  

It sounded almost like the pounding of hooves.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tad shorter than the previous one. Sorry guys, it is my b-day and I have to take care of guests and such. Please enjoy the chapter and, if you feel like it, drop me a line. Hopefully you enjoyed this. 
> 
> All the best!


	4. Scene IV.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It might have been infinitely wiser to stick to her hiding spot, but as soon as the frail torchlight touched her line of sight, panic set in. Her breath froze, air stuck in her lungs. The excess oxygen knifed at her insides. The pain was nowhere near as great as far as she could tell. The terror produced more than its share of grief.

It helped to have the pursuers known to her, she supposed. In equal measure, it left her disheartened. The King must have pitched quite the fit if his son was riding about, blindly searching for the mystery knight. The hall had been abuzz with speculation after her return as well, with Robert and Richard having goaded more than one innocent bystander into placing a bet; a bet on which of the two find unmask the mystery knight first, mind. If only the Stormlord knew  ‘twas his own close companion he looked for.   

But he was without wisdom and she as well. For despite the relative safety of her heaven, Lyanna did move. The moonlight and the soft whisper of a light coming from the fire was more than enough for it to be noticed. Running was futile; two men were on horses, and two followed on foot. Any one man could reach her before she reached the line of trees. Hoping against hope that Howland would have the sense to take himself off, she moved yet again. If she drew them far enough away, she might be able to come up with some sort of semi-believable reason for being here in the middle of the night.

“Halt! You there!” One of the men holding torches approached her retreating form. “Boy, have you gone deaf? Advance no further”

She would explain, she decided, after they came to the conclusion that in spite of the breeches and cap, she was not a boy. That was if they did not make a pincushion out of her before that. Her progress at an end she climbed to her knees and then pushed up until she was on her feet. The shield lied in the grass still.

Recognition had her spine losing some of its stiffness. Ser Barristan Selmy, long-legged, grim-looking but still humane enough to have kept his sword firmly sheathed, hurriedly carried himself across the distance. “What is this?” he questioned, eyes falling to the shield.

“It is mine.” No, even if she could find some excuse for her being out and about at such an hour, she would never find any satisfactory explanation for why she had the shield. Besides, one look at her would be enough to put the King’s mind at ease.    

Wonder flittered over the knight’s face as she raised the torch closer to her. “You–you are–”

“No lad, I am afraid.” She shrugged and offered a brief smile. All she wanted to do was throw herself at the man’s feet and beg his mercy. Yet that would make her look guilty. Better to see how matters stood before she set herself upon her knees before any man.

 “What have you there, Selmy?” She then had the dubious pleasure of being inspected by a man of greater rank. A prince. A Dornish prince of all things. An empty title but it stood a sight above lord. She blinked up at the man. He laughed as soon as he recognised her. “This is growing more and more entertaining by the minute. Come see, Your Grace!”

With sudden clarity, she understood why other lords and ladies avoided the man. He enjoyed disconcerting them, putting them in tight, uncomfortable corners. Her eyes hardened upon him. The day she cowed before him was the day she gave her hand to the Stranger.

“It seems your lady fair is neither that fair nor that much of a lady.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from protesting. The only man she would explain herself to was Rhaegar. And that because she wanted to. “It was the moonlight, was it not, my lady?” There was a softness to the Dornishman’s mockery, almost as though he spoke to a lover. “It is hard to resist, I suppose.” She kept her peace. “Not defending yourself? Give me the shield, Selmy.”

The Kingsguard obeyed after a brief glance in the Crown Prince’s direction. Lyanna kept her eyes on Rhaegar, even as she saw Prince Oberyn take the shield from the corner of her eye. “That shield is mine,” she addressed Rhaegar.  She had the inkling that all four men were taking her measure. Indeed, even Jon Connington saw fit to stare at her in that moment. And one ever so rarely saw his eyes glued to any woman, or so she’d heard.

Rhaegar dismounted, throwing the reins to Connington who caught them without a single word. Selmy stepped to the side for him and as for herself, she forced her erratic breathing into a calmer pattern. He’d not even looked at the shield. “Whom were you to meet here?”

“No one.” It was not a complete lie. She had, after all, come with someone, not to meet someone.

“The owner of the shield, who is he?” Her mind alit upon his strange words in the gardens.

“I am. That shield is mine, as I said.” His eyes bore into hers. She had heard it said that sometimes stares burned. This one, far from it, it chilled her.

“She’s lying through her teeth,” the Dornishman warned. “Best you find her lover now, Your Grace, and warn him away if you mean to have her. Wouldn’t do to have a cuckoo in the nest.” Did he have to be so crude? And truly, a fine one he was to speak.   

Apparently she was not the only one deliberately ignoring their audience. “You are the one we are looking for? The mystery knight?” Lyanna nodded. There was nothing else for it by that point. “Your brother’s bannermen shall  have to build you a temple, my lady.”

“What will you do?” Her brother’s bannermen could hang for all she cared. “Will you take me before the King?”

“She is not very bright, is she?” She dearly longed to throw something at the man still sitting his horse. Might be she would be fortunate and he’d land on his back in the dirt. “Connington, Selmy, I say we look for whoever else is in these parts.” It must have been something they’d agreed upon previously for no confusion surfaced and the invitation acted as more of an order than anything else. “Who knows what lurks in the shadows.”

“The shield is mine. And I was meeting no one.” He waved his hand dismissively, as though to say it made no matter. She stared, uncomprehending. “It is irregular, I grant you, Your Grace, but I had to do something. I could not let such an insult slide.”

“I understand.” She had the notion that he did not but it was assurance. Who was she to argue with that. “This changes nothing. I will see you on the morrow.” Lyanna nodded, “And then I will speak to your brother.” The avowal thus repeated put her much at ease. “If you could oblige me by not traipsing  off on your own as you have done now, I would be much obliged.”

“What are you going to do with the shield?” For a moment she had the hope that he would destroy it.

“That does not matter.” On the contrary, it mattered the most. Her lips remained sealed. “Can you make your way back to your brother’s camp without being seen?”

“Of course I can.” She had paid a modicum of attention to the way by which she and Howland had travelled. It would not be that difficult to find her way back. It could not be.

“Then go. And keep in mind what I have asked of you.” Something was indeed very odd. She brushed past him, deliberately allowing slight contact in hopes it would elicit some manner of response. The scheme failed her. It brought to mind chastisement from when she was a child and her behaviour had disappointed one parent or the other. The string was surprisingly strong.

She resented the pain. She resented more her own heart for caring. He said he would speak to Brandon, he gave every indication that he would not give her up, for whatever reason, but 'tis very occurrence left her ill at ease. How could he be so calm? How could the Dornishman’s word affect him not at all?

Her pride smarted. He should have at least laughed in the man’s face. Yet he had done none of that. His interest lied in the mystery knight and all else fell to the side. Just as all else fell to the side when he played the high harp. Her swallowed with some difficulty around the lump in her throat. It pained her. Rarely had she felt as wretched as she did in the moment.

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

She was shaken awake by the insistent tugging upon her shoulder. Lyanna came to with a groan. “What is it?” Marsia’s face appeared before her eyes. She did not even recall falling asleep, such had been her state upon arrival. Many of the thoughts which had plagued her returned as shadows, casting their shade upon the fine morning breeze.

“You cannot go on sleeping,” her kin said. “The joust is to begin soon.” The joust. Lyanna felt her face heat up. She had nearly forgotten. Supressing her first instinct which had been to jump heedlessly from beneath the covers, she pushed them aside. Marsia stared pointedly at her garments. Lyanna looked down as well. “Might be it would be wise to hide those.”

Marsia scuttled about the tent, pouring water in a small bassinet and bringing it to her. She washed her hands and face. “I shall leave my hair as is. A fine combing will do this morn.”

“It is in need of a combing by the looks of it. You should have braided it.” She should have, but once back in tent her stomach had been all knots of anxiety and her fingers a trembling mess. Not to mention her poor heart, frightening her into thinking herself near death. By the time the terror faded, so had the power carrying her through it all. And she had simply fallen asleep.

Folding a kirtle over her arm, Marsia pushed a clean shift Lyanna’s way. “I wonder if Ser Dayne will unhorse His Grace this time as well. He is a fine jouster.”

“No. His Grace will win.” The girl gave her a questioning stare. “Do not ask how I know. ‘Tis a feeling, is all.” And a promise, but why waste her breath explaining. “Give that to me.” She reached for the kirtle after she’d bound herself decently in the shift. “Besides, if Ser Dayne wins, he will surely crown his sister and the lot of us need no reminder of her beauty.”

“Never say.” Suspicion flickered in Marsia’s eyes. “I did not know you felt so strongly about the matter. Is it because His Grace seemed so close to her that first evening? Ah, never you mind, my lady. I can see I have spoken out of turn.”

“Quite out of turn,” she laughed. “I will now worry about poor Ned all through the tourney.”

“Would it not be wiser to worry for my lord?” Marsia questioned.

“Heavens, no. That one does not bear thinking about. We had best ignore anything Brandon does or says on this day. He will doubtlessly be put out when he loses.” Unless by some twist if fate he won. But she somehow doubted that would be the case.

They set about the rest of their preparation until everything was quite ready and Lyanna had no more reason to linger in her tent, hiding away fro a potentially uncomfortable situation. Having put her foot into it, rather firmly, extricating it proved a most difficult task. It would be much better for all involved that she trudge on. Somehow. And keep from murdering the Dornish prince. Somehow. He would someday be her subject.

Brandon was not there to escort her. Ned, however, was. He gave him a sheepish smile, wondering whether he knew what had transpired the previous night. By his manner she could tell the answer was a no. It would not help anything to worry him. Lyanna took arm and Marsia the other. “Grandmother has gone before us. She says she cannot be expected to wait  in the cold for either of you.”

“And the stands provide heat?” The woman had finally lost what remained of her wits, Lyanna considered, stifling laughter rather poorly. “Have you seen Brandon? Is he in fine form?”

“Worry not. You’ve as much of a change to get the crown as any woman here.” That was not very good odds. Such she was about to say to her brother when a rider passed by them. “My, that one sure is in a hurry. I wonder what war he hurries towards.”

“The only worthy war. His lady must have forgotten to give him her favour.” She, of course, had long since had hers tied to Brandon’s lance. With Lady Catelyn not present, it fell to her to incentivise her brother towards victory. She did wonder whether his pride would allow him to lose on purpose. The amusing thought distracted her long enough for Ned to make his reply.

“Fortunately for us, Brandon will not be trampling innocents for want of a favour.” If Lyanna had not given hers, she was fairly certain some other hapless maiden would have fallen under the spell of Brandon’s smiles. “He will, however, trample the three of us, if we are not there on time.”

With that in mind, they made admirable progress. Grandmother awaited their arrival with Howland Reed at her side. Lyanna would have offered her pity, but she was too busy settling herself so that Marsia would be seated between her and grandmother. Rarely was there better protection than a human shield.

And with that, her attention was thoroughly engaged by the herald, calling out the first competitors. Brandon would not be flaying them after all. She smiled her victory and pressed her elbow into Ned’s side. “I will be sorely disappointed if you do not keep your eyes peeled to the joust.”

“As though I could look at anything else.” He was looking at Lady Ashara. In the interest of maintaining decorum, Lyanna bit her lip and trained her eyes firmly upon the approaching Lord Yohn Royce.

She admired the Dornishman’s bronze armour. It was not, she gathered, the famed Royce armour inscribed with runes, but it was close enough to give the observed a taste. And she indeed enjoyed what she saw. The herald raised his voice over gthe cheers of the crowds. And then the smallfolk drowned out whatever the man said for the Prince rode forth.

By the gods, Lyanna was to be treated to a most pleasing display of chest-plates and chainmail tunics. The more ominous vein of the Prince’s garb held her attention arrested. She could but wonder what he would do should the rubies fly to the ground if he lost his seat. Lyanna dearly hoped that would not be the case.

The herald finally managed to complete his task. The horn was blown and lances fell forth. Lyanna leaned in, hands falling upon her knees, pressing with enough strength in her excitement that she felt one of the dainty lace ends snap beneath the pressure. Yet she was beyond caring. Lord Yohn’s lance broke against the Prince’s shoulder, but Rhaegar’s caught his opponent’s left side if the chest. And whatever force he’d put behind it was enough to see the adversary falling to his back.

A gasp rose from the on-lookers. Lyanna would not admit if asked that she’d been among them. That had been as well executed a blow as could be. By the book even.  The Prince’s effort was rewarded with a deafening cheer from his adoring followers. The horse was led about the lane as Rhaegar held up his lance in salute.

Her own brother followed, his efforts just as valiant, if not quite as exciting as the Prince’s. But then few could boast similar reception from the smallfolk as the King’s son. Nevertheless, Lyanna cheered for her brother. Ned had the good grace to tear his gaze away from the charming lady that had sent him into such a discontent state. He even managed to show some appreciation for their brother’s victory, though she suspected he’d seen little enough of it.

Leaning in, she whispered, “You ought to have entered the lists yourself and crown her. That would have earned you her admiration if nothing else.”

Ned made a sound in the back of his throat which might have been a foul course for all she could tell. He did not clarify and she returned to watching the joust. Undeniably the sight of it was enough to drive her worst fears away for the moment.

Marsia pointed Ser Dayne out to her as he approached. “Care for a wager?”

“Let us,” she agreed, pulling out a few coins from a pouch. “You first.”

“I predict Ser Dayne will be the winner of this tourney.” She handed Lyanna a couple of coppers.

“I predict the winner will be the Crown Prince.” They shook hands after she handed in her coins.

Grandmother sent the both of them a flaying glare. She did not interrupt them. Vulgar though it might be to be wagering in plain sight, she did not think anyone paid them much mind. “Ned, who do you think will win?”

“What?”

“Leave him. You’ll get nothing out of that one. I doubt he even knows where he is.”

As if to prove her wrong, Ned put in two coins as well, “Ser Barristan Selmy is in fine form this day.”

“You must be mad.”  Nevertheless, the clinking of coins did not stop.

Lyanna pursed her lips and returned her attention to the tracks. The herald was still speaking. The crowd hushed for a few moments to hear for whom they would be cheering. And so the joust continued, bringing contestant after contestant until it came to the Crown Prince again, and her own brother.

“You are not the least bit conflicted, I see,” Marsia muttered. She shrugged at that. Brandon, for all his skill, would not win. “Some would say it shows a deplorable lack of devotion on your part.”

“One should be selective about their devotion. What is the point of it otherwise?”

And right she had been for no sooner than the first tilt came to an end that the Prince’s lance found its mark. But her brother’s hand, as well, from what she could see. He touched Rhaegar’s side, not enough to throw him off the saddle though. Whereas her poor brother did falter. Still, having not landed in the dust on his back, the Lord of Winterfell could still claim some pride in his skill.

“I almost wagered on your brother,” Marsia said, relief coming on the heels of the confession. “Well, that shall teach me to trust those closest to me.”

“He lost honourably.” Additionally, none of them lost any coin.  She could deal with that.

As it turned out, the six coins were to be battled over by only her and Ned. Lyanna held half of the winnings in her hand, Ned retained the second half. “Do you truly believe Ser Barristan will win.” Properly speaking, both of them had about the same amount of sleep to bank upon, with the knight of the Kingsguard having a tad more experience. But in her opinion, the Prince still stood a better chance of winning. If only because she had promised some reward for his efforts.

“He has a fair shot of it. Although I admit the Prince seems rather adamant about keeping his seat. That might pose a bit of a problem.” He had thus far managed admirably well, but Lyanna too experienced a pang of uncertainty, though for very different reasons than the ones invoked by her brother. She suspected alleviation would come only when the joust was at an end. Not that far off, considering the last tilt was upon them.

Ned stood up. She glanced his way to find the reason for which he moved from her. And then she saw her keeper, for the time being. Brandon took a seat by her side. She noted the slightly damp hair had been slicked back. “We were wondering when you would return.”

“Had to get that armour off.” His girth was twice less in its absence, which meant he could sit with them without half the population gathered about having to find other seats. “It seems I shan’t be giving you the crown after all, sister. ‘Tis my hope you are not too disappointed.”

“I shall live.” She hadn’t the heart to admit to any other arrangements, nor did she bring up her bet with Ned. The crowd exploded then, which she took to mean that the men were taking their positions. Instinctively, she wrapped her hands around his arm. “No matter. I think you were very good still.” It was just that His Grace was better and he had a promise to fulfil. Brandon’s stakes in the game were of lower quality, as far as she could tell. “Did you purposefully miss the previous tilt?”

“No. I saw it well enough from where I was.”

Further conversation would have to wait though. One word from the herald and the two competitors stood poised to advance. Hooves pound the ground. Lances pointed menacingly forth. The spectators collectively held their breath. Tension swelled. Lyanna did not dare blink for fear of missing the moment wood met steel. Her stomach clenched painfully, anticipation rendering her insensible to anything other than the men riding against one another. She felt not her brother’s hand on her own, not Marsia touch her shoulder.

Ser Barristan and the Prince passed one another by. Neither had lost their seat or been visibly unbalanced. However, the head of a wooden spear lied upon the ground. She tried to distinguish by the colours to whom it belonged, but a squire ran onto the field, carrying its replica. It had been Ser Barristan’s spear that broke upon the Prince’s shield. Her question answered, Lyanna shifted in her seat.

For the first time she felt truly uncertain of Rhaegar’s victory. “A good tilt,” her brother murmured. “For a man of his years, Ser Barristan certainly does not show any fatigue.” He was not in the first blush of youth, to be certain, but Lyanna failed to see how that mattered. A man of experience was doubtlessly comparable to a younger one.

The second tilt came and went. And still, she was no closer to the crown than she had been before. It made no matter. She told herself that crown or not, the Prince would still speak to her brother. The herald called for a third tilt.

“Last one.” Brandon patted her arm. Her nails bit into his. “Remind me not to sit at your side the next we watch the joust.” His jest fell flat though for she was too caught in her own worries to pay him heed. “The way you act, one should think your life depended on this.”

“You do not understand.” He nodded acceptance of her words. “Here we are. If only he could drive his horse faster.” If Barristan had no change to defend himself then he would surely lose. And that would be that.

“It’s not speed he’s lacking. He needs to knock Ser Barristan’s lance aside.” How he knew of whom she spoke, Lyanna was uncertain. “At least he’s holding that shield properly.”

The horses sped into a canter. Her hands clasped before her chest. A deafening roar rose from the crowd. And the final tilt found its end, bringing forth a victor. Unexpectedly, she whooped for the joy of it, momentarily forgetting she was supposed to act the lady.

All the pomp following that very moment stood a shield between her and her elation. Despite the impulse, she did manage to catch herself and fall into a less demonstrative state by the time the herald no longer spoke.

A crown was brought forth, resting upon a pristine cushion. Against the pure white, even the blue of winter roses seemed brilliant. It had been a good choice and whoever had thought of it deserved words of praise at least. “How lovely they are,” Marsia cooed. “As soon as we get home I shall search the glass gardens for our own roses.”

“And bring a good number inside,” Lyanna supplied. “What is the point of roses if one cannot admire them or smell their fragrance.”

“Very true.”

“I hope you will refrain from doing as you have done last time and cutting all the roses,” Brandon intervened, apparently not having anything better to do.

Lyanna might have snapped at him for the unwisely delivered caution, but she was stopped from doing so by the approaching rider. The Prince had taken off his helmet. Despite maintaining a closed-off expression, the crown dangling from the tip of his spear and the general direction he took were enough to alert her that he did mean to keep his word.

“Sit before us maiden of little renown,” the herald boomed, as was customary once the crown was dropped into her lap. She hadn’t the time to admire it, for Brandon, the closest knight at her side, lifted it and placed it upon her head. “Rise before us queen, of love and beauty, crowned!”

She stood, leaning slightly over to touch the head of the spear in silent gratitude. As for the smallfolk gathered about and the noble audience, they greeted the decision with hearty approval. But Lyanna was nodding her thanks to the Prince whose unwavering stare reminded her there was yet another part of the promise which had yet to find fulfilment. She sat back down when he drew away, off to appease the crowds, no doubt.

His absence was most keenly felt as Brandon led her and Marsia back to the tents, guarding the two from anyone who would approach. Her confusion was short lived though, for not all were to be sent away after all. Ser Dayne was greeted with a drop more openness.

“His Grace still holds council with his well-wishers,” the knight said in that affable manner of his, “he asks that you wait, my lord, for he would have words.”

Brandon, who could not have possibly misunderstood, gave a sharp nod. “If needs must.” Such a public statement did not bear refusal.

Or Lyanna hoped it did not. She brought a hand up to her crown, sliding it forth ever so gently for fear of shaking the petals loose. “How very proud you look,” Marsia teased. “Put the rest of us to shame you did, what with your calm manner. Tell me truly, did you know His Grace wished to single you out for such attentions?”

“I know not why the lot of you do not care to believe me, but I maintain that mindreading is no talent I’ve in my possession,” she defended herself. “Is it so very difficult to believe otherwise?”

“No. That it is not. But surely you understand the test of us are green with envy.” Marsia did not look particularly distressed, so she took it for more teasing. “Look there, Lady Ashara approaches.”

A nod came from her, yet she gripped her companion’s arm. “Tell my brother that he owes me those three coppers.” No further words passed between them as the Dornishwoman spoke greetings and took Lyanna by the hand.

“Elia sent me forth with the congratulations. The babe keeps her rooted to her chair, I fear.” Her cheeks were bussed gently. “How well the crown becomes you. Winter roses for a Northerner lady. Verily I doubt any man could have better arranged for such fitting a thing.”

Her joy further compounded by the attention heaped upon her, Lyanna did her best to entertain the woman with witty responses, if only to keep her in Ned’s presence longer. The second to eldest said nothing, not that she had expected he would, but he did seem relieved to have even a few appreciative glances thrown his way.

Brandon, meantime, conversed with the Dornishwomman’s brother still. She could not catch every word, but the prideful look on her brother’s face gave her fair idea that he thought himself the winner of something. “Once the excitement has died down, I shall go to the Princess.”

“There is no hurry,” Ashara assured. “The invitation remains open. Besides, you must be in want of, shall we say, more exciting company.” A conspiratorially smile passed upon the brunette’s face. “I am very pleased for you, my lady.”

“You are, indeed, most kind.” Yet happiness died upon her lips and her mouth filled with ashes as she spied an approaching figure. “The devil–“ Not quite what she had wanted to let slip. Her hand came over her lips, just as yet another Dornishman joined the rest of them.

“How very well you look,” Oberyn Martell complimented, bending over her hand perfunctorily. “Most arresting, my lady, but I daresay soft moonlight would lend you an air of mystery and work wonderfully with those flowers of yours.”

The force smile she sported hurt her face. “I would not dare take such precious prize without during the knight. It’s value is simply too high.”

“Is it? My lady, you surprise me!” She would like to do more than that. “Roses are much too precious?”

“My Prince,” Ashara cut in good-naturedly, “the value is without measure. They are a token of the deepest appreciation.”

”I suppose one should be glad my lady feels so deeply.” He was mocking her. And she could hardly defend herself without giving away a secret or two.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandmother had appointed herself guard over Lyanna. She needed no guard, for there was no plan she had which involved fleeing. But then, how could grandmother have foreseen that her agitated state was due to something other than cold feet? In her defence, even with a promise in hand, it was still much too insubstantial an assurance that matters would proceed as they should. He could still change his mind. He could choose another. She would feel a lot better after she had seen him and he spoke the words and she had something more solid to cling onto. Yes, she would feel a lot better then.

As though her thoughts had been oozing out of her loud and clear, the tent flap moved to the side to admit her brother. Lyanna, who had been sitting on the bench, stood, a question forming upon her lips. But Brandon was faster. He addressed her in an easy manner, suggesting that he was pleased, if not even relieved. “It seems you will outdo us all in fulfilling father’s wish.” He smiled. “His Grace requested your hand in marriage.”  He might have waited, he might have has someone else make the request as was usually done. But Lyanna had no right to complain. She had no strength to.

For a moment her legs shook. But when she took her first step, there was nothing to stop them after. Only her grandmother clearing her throat in a reminder that she was not to run. Chagrined, she realised her fingers hand indeed tangled in the folds of her skirts. “You will find him without. I believe he wishes to walk with you. Lyanna, you will not be long.”

“But–“ The protest died on her lips. And then it was revived. “A walk with my betrothed. Surely there is nothing unseemly about that.”

“And surely you will not defy me. A short walk and nothing else. Believe you me, after you are a bride, you will have precious little respite from your husband.” As intriguing as the thought was, she could not set about peppering him with questions.

She turned slowly and walked without. And sure enough she was waited upon. The King’s son stood beneath a tall tree, resting in the shadows. The high colour she had observed by the end of the joust was gone. He had returned to his usual pale colouring. Her fingers loosened her grip on the skirts. “Your Grace,” she greeted with a wide smile, relief uncurling  in the pit of her stomach.

“My lady.” He left his position and strode towards her. Lyanna gave him her hand willingly. “I take it your brother will allow us our walk.”

“A short one.” He brought her hand to his lips. But they were in the sight of all. A weak protest bounced off her lips, but he ignored that. She’d not meant it at any rate. “Where are we to go, Your Grace?”

He placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Not far. If we are to have but a short walk then I mustn’t go too far.” Her lips moved in indecision. Brandon could not stop him. Not truly, if he wished to. But he was possibly too well-bred, although given he saw little wrong with stealing away with her into shadowed placed and making free with her favours suggested otherwise. How confusing men were.

They did walk. She watched her feet, counting the steps.  It was useless, of course, because she could not concentrate at all. There was no hope for her, Lyanna realised, half-annoyed and half-amused. “Just as well, Your Grace; my brother tells me we shall be in company of one another long enough.”  

“Might be. But might be not.” She breathed in deeply. Lyanna did not voice her question, but all the same, he sensed her confusion. Or had expected it enough that an explanation was forthcoming. “I expect we shan’t alter overmuch just for the simple fact that we are wedded.” What did that mean? “The first few moon turns could prove your brother correct though. We might come to a decision after that.”

“I see.” He had the advantage of her. Husbands could come and go as was their desire. “What manner of decision does Your Grace have in mind?”

He laughed. “It is premature to say a thing.” She accepted that, if only because she felt pushing too hard would serve no further purpose. “Your brother plans to take you to Riverrun, I understand. He means to formalise his agreement with Lord Tully’s eldest daughter.” Having not been informed of that, her response was a simple nod as she fought to keep the surprise from cracking her façade.

“You will be there?” she asked hopefully. Her fingers dug into him. “Will you be there?”

“No. As interesting as that would be, I fear my obligations would not permit anything of that nature.” Lyanna blinked up at him. “But I would write, if allowed.” He was not asking. He was simply letting her know that she was to answer his letters. As for why, for Lyanna could not imagine he wanted to know very much of her mundane life, it remained a mystery.

“Write?” Her smile never faltered. “If Your Grace so wishes.” He was nodding down at her. “I suppose I cannot beg your attendance if your obligations take you elsewhere. Very well, letters will do.”

As it happened, short walks were not at all detrimental to finding hidden spots. Or might be the Prince knew the lay of the land. Either way, she was secluded before long with her betrothed behind a line of sturdy trees. And for the life of her she could not summon one single reason for them to make their way back. She did not want to go back.             

“It is so quiet here.” Different from the camp with all those people milling about; it soothed her. He released her hand. “Almost as though you and I are the only souls for miles.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to hoping something of my cruel behaviour was mitigated. There now, everyone important thinks out mystery knight is...unconventional at best (yes, I'm not counting Oberyn).
> 
> Okay, so this was the first act. We'll pass to the second, which will mostly deal with...King's Landing and other kingly-related stuff ;).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. Drop me a line if you're up to it.


	5. Scene V.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She bent to the side, stretching her arm out. She could almost reach the ribbon. The tips of her fingers brushed against the smooth cloth and her mouth opened of its own accord, the strain of balancing her weight in such precarious circumstances taking its toll. Nevertheless, years of riding had taught her how to maintain, at the very least, a sliver of control. The end of the ribbon wrapped around her pointer and she crooked it, hooking her prize onto it.

The cantering mare’s muscles bunched beneath her, reacting either to the tug on the reins or to the sound of her mistress celebrating her victory. Lyanna straightened herself, back arching, head rising with pride. “And there you have it, young master,” she called over her shoulder, eyes shining upon the slack-jawed heir of Lord Tully. The ribbon was carefully wrapped around her wrist a few times over. Meantime, she guided the mare into turning around.

Lyanna approached the young boy, holding out her hand for him to divest her of the frippery. He pulled on it and brought its whole length into his hand. “My apologies for doubting your word, my lady. I thought for certain it would prove more of a challenge.”

“It was a challenge,” she acknowledged, her now free hand rubbing the opposite arm. His contrition did not matter all that much, for Lyanna had not taken offence at his dismissal of her. It sometimes did happen that one had to prove their worth; it would have been unfair had he robbed her of the opportunity only. “For a moment I was not certain I could do it.”

“You were certainly much better than either Cat or Lysa.” The ribbon disappeared into a small pouch hanging on his belt. Lyanna did not think to chastise him for that; she had other ribbons.

“I often ran against Benjen.” It was a pity that her youngest brother could not be brought along. “He would have doubtlessly been far less lenient on my performance.” She laughed at the uncertain expression upon Edmure’s face. “You needn’t fear offending me. I am made of sterner stuff.” After all, she could allow herself to indulge; she had not been the one in the wrong.    

Even with such entertainments to keep her sufficiently busy during her stay at Riverrun, Lyanna found her want of a different sort entirely. At first she had been relieved to have some time to herself, away from the Crown Prince’s scrutinising gaze with all its unsettling pangs. In like measure, a protest welled up within her, bubbling over all the while she continually steered her thoughts away from the niggling disappointment. How foolish was it of her to have expected warmth. In truth, her mind was not so far gone that she could not recognise kisses by the book or vexing indifference when it stood before her very eyes.

Struggling to keep her thoughts from showing, she invited the young Edmure to another round about the fields. “That should give your sister and my brother enough time.” The boy shrugged, clearly not understanding her meaning. Better that he did not.

Soon enough, he galloped ahead, leaving her to a slower canter. Her mare, fine coat covered in sweat, neighed and branded the earth in their exercise. Above, the thin veneer of aged white gathered in dots and spots. She allowed her eyes to roam the expanse of that celestial tapestry, a few straggling ropes of white breaking off of heavier chunks. St adrift these babes in the proverbial woods floated aimlessly away.

He had not even protested her supposed tryst. What manner of man allowed the woman he wished to wed such leeway? It was almost as though he did not care whether she took another to lover. As though it signified not at all. When his own father had fairly locked his Queen away for imagined indiscretions. Lyanna supposed they were imagined for the son was his father’s very image. She doubted any could cast the shadow of doubt upon any of the children’s paternity. Nevertheless, the King had sealed away his wife, with only septas to bear her company. Was the son so very different in temperament?

A man left cold by such insults could not be very much of a man, indeed. Why, she had to tread with care. It could be that he’d simply chosen to believe her. Though even that much did not sit well with her. On the one hand there was Ned to consider. On the other, her brother must have had some inkling as to what manner of trouble he could brew with such ill-though out antics. She was his sister, not his shield.

“Will we ride again on the morrow?” She snapped out of her thoughts, blinking at the other’s face. “I would rather be out here.” He had returned for her.

“I expect you are anxious to return to your squiring,” she noted softly. He nodded. “Brandon says he shall take on a few squires as well. A pity you shan’t be amongst them my nearly-good-brother. It would have been a valuable opportunity, I daresay.” But for what? Lord Tully, she understood, was looking to forge an alliance with other great houses. Lysa was, apparently, to wed either Robert Baratheon or, if the gods had no mercy, Oberyn Martell; he too stood to win her hand. The second choice Lyanna much doubted merited even a drop of attention. The man would frighten sweet, shy Lysa with as little as a smile. Not that it was any of her business.

Upon arrival she’d considered whether her good-sister’s kin and her own might come to further understandings. But it became apparent just as soon that such would not happen. Lysa had no interest in Ned and Ned had no interest in Lysa. He’d excused himself as soon as possible to return to Winterfell. Brandon too seemed to have put the thought out of his head. Or so he told her the previous night, just as he was taking his leave of her. While Lyanna did not much care for what Brandon had planned for Ned, she had joined her voice to his nonetheless, agreement coming as an easy thing.

“I am hoping father will allow me to return soon.” They continued a slow, easy conversation throughout the ride back. “Not that I am in any way displeased with the company.” He blushed and she wondered whether she resembled this child at all in Rhaegar’s eyes. If he had not taken her seriously, it might well have been because of her own actions. She eased the tension between her and her soon to be good-brother.  “But even Lysa is much too taken with her–“ He bit back the words at the last moment, giving Lyanna a long moment of pause. “I should not have said that.” An apologetic smile unfurled across his face.

“There, there, you have not betrayed your sister’s confidence, rest assured,” Lyanna found herself soothing the boy. It had been a near thing, she suspected, brought on by their unexpected closeness and the attention she awarded him. People simply enjoyed being listened to. Her mouth formed a slight smile. A pang deterred her from adding any more words.

Blinking at the unforeseen interruption, she paused with her lips splayed open, speech one hair’s breadth away from taking form. Yet no words came. Her head whirled until she overlooked the expanse of land behind her, over her shoulder. It was akin to a frisson. Yet her spine was not bothered. What a foolish thing the mind could be at times.

“Are you well?” Edmure questioned, reaching out tentatively. His fingertips touched her arm. Lyanna kept scrupulously still, eyeing the green pastures with discontentment. And she’d been having such a nice day. Her lips lost their arch.

“Of course I am well. I just recalled something and–“ She stopped herself. Lyanna could have laughed. About to be explaining herself to a child. “Well, no matter. ‘Tis not something one can solve right away. Shall we return, do you think?”

Damn her brother and his betrothed. Her duty was not to chaperone the younger brother about as her own sibling took advantage of the relative peace. He would have a lifetime and she would not be careless enough to trust in him wholeheartedly. With that in mind, Lyanna offered Edmure a nod.

The boy followed. He made no argument against her desires, not looked as though he knew what they might find upon returning. And he was the one who began speaking once more, proving innocence truly was the best antidote. Amusing her with tales of his fellow squires, Edmure made certain their return was as easy as their departure and had Lyanna known what precisely awaited them, she would have kept him out longer. Some things one was not supposed to see or even hear a whisper of. Regardless, once within the confines of the garden proper there was no escape.

Not long had they dismounted that the sound of angry voices reached them. Lyanna tensed, recognising her brother’s bellow when it came. She picked up her skirts, hoisting them indecently high as she launched into a run. Edmure called after her, but she hadn’t the time or the inclination to explain that Brandon yelling was the equivalent of a brawl in the making. Older brothers tended to have clear idiosyncrasies younger sisters could rely on.

She rounded a hedge, knowing that the road they had set upon led to the walled pavilion. Of course her brother would have led Lady Catelyn to such a place. She heard hard breathing coming from somewhere behind her and surmised, without much effort, that her companion was as steadfast as he was pleasant. And it was his sister who was likely involved in whatever went on under the roof of the pavilion.

They reached their destination at about to same time. Lyanna’s chest heaved even as she brought a hand over it, eyes locked on the scene before her. Her brother stood, a veritable fortress between his betrothed and a young squire by the name of Petyr. Lady Catelyn’s hands were raised to her mouth, covering what was an expression of disbelief, horror. Her teeth clenched at the implications. Surely the boy would not be fool enough to make free with favours when Brandon was nearby.

Three pairs of eyes turned to the couple just arrived. Brandon’s eyes blazed with fury, that much she had already guessed. But it was the squire who spoke. “Let them be my witnesses then. I have–“

“Be silent!” Brandon’s roar gave her pause. His temper was easily riled, it was true, but his fury ran fast. Not deep. The command had the effect of a challenge upon the younger man.

“I  have bedded Lady Catelyn.” A choked noise from behind her told Lyanna Edmure Tully was not particularly appreciative of that.

“Why are you doing this Petyr; telling such lies.” There was desperation in those words. Lyanna’s gaze snapped to the elder Tully sister. Enough of it to credit Petyr’s words? “Ser, I do not know what came over him, but he speaks untruth.”

“You shall meet me on the field,” Brandon said, his voice thick with anger. He hadn’t a gauntlet upon him, but nevertheless his challenge rang true. “This is the last you will speak to the lady.”

“Brandon.” That was Lady Catelyn. “He is just a boy.” She was trying to smooth the matter over.

“Let the gods decide, ser, whether I speak truth or nay.” A foolish boy, Lyanna considered as her brother’s face burned a feverish colour. And the worst of it was that he did not seem to realise he was dragging the woman he presumably loved through the mud.

There was no doubt in her mind that the squire loved the lady. Such irrational folly could only be born out of some sense of spurned affection. Be that as it may, she moved towards her soon to be good-sister. “If you would be so kind as to escort your father’s squire way, young demure. I would have words with my brother, privately.”  Catelyn stood as well, but Lyanna caught her with a sharp look and signalled that she should sit back down. Edmure, meantime, grabbed Petyr by the arm none too gently. And he went.

Relief bathed the premises for all too brief a time. “He did not take my-my maidenhead,” the Tully girl said, her voice small, as though she expected not to be believed, though she hoped she would be. “Brandon, I would never–“ She would never. A smarter girl that the younger Ryswell sister then.

“It makes no matter, my lady,” she interrupted, not cruelly. Nonetheless, she lacked the gentle touch which might have been expected of her. “What he said is an insult to you, and your father and not last to my brother. And he must uphold his claim or pay the price for lying.”

“My sister has the right if it.” He sat heavily upon a stone bench, planting his face in his hands for but a moment. His betrothed watched him with her too-pale face losing its last colours. A sigh left him. Lyanna did not go to him. Brandon would be fine on his own.

“It is the right thing for him to do,” she tried once more, reaching Lady Catelyn’s side. She awkwardly placed a hand on the other’s shoulder. “As your betrothed, it is my brother’s duty to protect your honour.” Not to mention that to leave such a rumour unrefuted would only lead to further heartache down the road. “Come, we should walk for a little while.”

It was Brandon who started. “He might still be about.”

“If he is, he shall not linger.” Her sibling gave her a short nod and stood. “Go speak to our host. Lady Catelyn needs a few moments.” The lady did not protest Brandon’s departure, but her features maintained their ethereal quality even as a dull shadow fell upon them. Lyanna held out her hand, hoping she would not have to explicitly call the other woman out of her bewilderment.

The Tully maiden stood to her feel, clasping the proffered hand. “Why would he say such things?” Genuine confusion suffused her expression. “He has been like a brother to me all these years.” Well, people were allowed to be blind. “And in front of Brandon; what will he think of me now?”

“Likely that you shall be much better in his care once you are wed,” she improvised. “It is clear to him that the fault lies not with you.” But was it? Brandon knew all too well how these matters went. “Do not fret over it, my lady; trust in my brother.” She felt foolish as she spoke. She would sooner trust a snake were she in Lady Catelyn’s position.

Yet her words seemed to appeal. The older girl pressed her hand almost painfully. Despite wishing to free herself, Lyanna suffered under the ministrations. Her store of understanding was being severely depleted. Thus she pursed her lips and made a second attempt at escape. “You are very certain. I wish I had your certainty.”

Rather she was desperate. “You’ve no need for it, my lady.” The third time she did tug her hand away and Catelyn allowed it, her cheeks flaming. “I believe you already have it, just do not wish to believe as much.”

As she promised, Lyanna lured Catelyn out from under the pavilion and onto the path. They walked for a time, one silent out of desire, the other out of necessity. For a brief moment, she wondered whether she had been too harsh, too unyielding. But she did not speak, her gift with words was stunted at best. She preferred the calm of silence as the wind carded its fingers through her hair.

It was one of the servants who came for them. A girl not beyond Lyanna’s ears, her face flushed, her breath coming in short gasps. “M’lord would see you, m’ladies.”

The time had come to face the music. Or so Lyanna imagined as the other’s hand stiffened under her own. She commented none upon that. She followed, out of interest, her own curiosity mounting as they took more and more steps towards the great hall, from where the stairs would take them to the inner quarters. There was a small solar there, less formal than the one used to receive important guests. She had been into the first, as she was soon to be family and her brother had permitted her attendance, might be in hopes he would need her eyes and ears. A task she could not protest to; especially when such strange happenings came to her attention. So far, her attention bore no fruit. That was about to change.

Lyanna remained one pace behind Lady Catelyn who saw fit to hurry her steps. She, on the other hand, was not quite as eager to break her neck or sprain her ankle. The servant girl walked behind Lyanna. She did not speak and no one addressed her. Just as well, her mouth would doubtlessly run as soon as she was with her brethren.

In no time they reached the door of the small solar. Catelyn entered without knocking. Lyanna, in keeping with her behaviour thus far, followed upon a gentler pace, inclining her head in greeting to the keep’s maester. Hoster Tully surveyed the two of them for a short moment before demanding to know what had happened. Catelyn obliged him. Lyanna, who felt more comfortable listening, did not interrupt.

What that yielded was agreement on the man’s part that Brandon had been right to issue a challenge. And as her brother joined them, Hoster proposed his own son for a squire. “It is his sister whom bore insult after all.”

It was a sorry thing to be certain. But there it was. A fight would come. 

There would be a night of rest. It was customary, after all, and Lyanna much suspected Brandon would not wish to compete against a man out of sorts. No, he would do his duty as a knight, if only because knights were much more carefully watched in these parts.

“You’ve no words?” Brandon questioned as soon as the two of them were in her chamber. “Nothing at all. No insight? No harsh reprimands?”

“”You seem to think this is any of my affair, brother.” She took a fortifying breath. “If you believe she is a maiden yet and choose to protect her name, why should I stop you? It is not as though the insolent squire poses a threat. Although how you could be certain, I cannot tell.”

“She is not the sort of woman to betray my trust.” Admirable as that was, Lyanna thought of the matter more in terms of self-preservation. Were she in a like situation, no matter how distasteful the lie, she would grab at her chance. Only the daring had any winnings.

“You would know.” His lips fell in a snarl. She retreated, just a step, but enough to let him know she was unsettled. “Brandon, you are taking a risk. While I applaud your willingness to stand by the maiden, be certain it is what you wish to do.”

“I knew you had it in you.” Her hand flattened against her middle. There was something in his eyes. “Just to lay waste to your fears, I do intend to do just as I said. It is much too late to pull out of this agreement, even if there was a way to do so.”

“And your Barbrey?” His reaction was as expected; she winced. Lyanna did not necessarily wish to worsen his mood. “Her father will demand some sort of retribution. Or if not, your own conscience.” At least there was no child to complicate matters. There had been a short letter for her brother, come from Maester Walys himself. She’d been allowed to read it, so she may know what to avoid discussing. Nevertheless, Barbrey’s dilemma was not at an end. “She will need a home of her own. A husband. She will expect as much and she will expect it of you; it will hurt her when you return with a wife in tow.”

“I made her no promise of that nature.” Not explicitly, as far as Lyanna could tell, but no sane woman would risk every other chance on a lack of promise. She had understood a promise and had gone on to act upon her knowledge.

“You allowed your mind to rest and you are now caught in a mess of your own making. Do you wish me to point out any more of your mistakes?” He shook his head. And he beat a hasty retreat. “What matters now is that we make the best of it. Start considering husbands for Lady Barbrey and you had best choose a kind man. Someone who will not hold your folly against her.” And hers. But Brandon should have known he was putting her in a tight spot as much as she should have. “A widower, might be a man with an heir of his own, someone who would not depend upon the lady to sire children.” There had to be someone.

Her brother sighed, as much of a response as he would ever gift her with, given the tension swelling between them. “You do not understand. It is not as though knowing will make her situation any easier.”

“I understand perfectly.” Which was why were she a man she would not wed Lady Barbrey. Fortunately, she was not a man. “My understanding will not change the situation any though, will it? Her father cannot or will not take her back, she has no to depend upon you and your kindness and I do not imagine your Lady Catelyn would take it well if she were there upon arrival.”

“Must you be so callous? Am I not allowed mistakes?” He was close to snapping. Lyanna blinked up at him, watching tension wring his composure, shredding his control. Good; people were allowed stupidity only if they paid the cost.

“A mistake, dear brother, is bedding a whore and getting her with child.” His mouth fell open, a feeble protest which she did not allow to stop her. “A mistake implies lack of foresight. You did not make a mistake, unless you are telling me Lady Barbrey is in the habit of lifting her skirts–“

“Watch your tongue.”

“I am not being deliberately cruel,” she defended herself, “you are being unrealistic in your expectations. You know a man can bed a lady only if he plans to wed her, and even then there are those who would turn their nose up at such an anticipation of vows. Assuage your guilt however you will, but do not attempt to lie to my face as though I were an ignorant child. I will not stand for that.”

“Her father would protest to any match made outside House Stark.” And there it was. The reason for which a solution still refused to crop up. “You know how the man is. Barbrey I might convince, but him; well, I’d have better luck hatching dragon eggs.”

She had meant nothing to him, has she? A flicker of disappointment momentarily held Lyanna back from answering. “Drag any of our brothers into this, and it will be I who warns them. Don’t you dare, Brandon. If you must, wait until I have wedded and then I will take the task off of your hands.”

Vibrant red coloured her brother’s face. His hand shot out and grabbed at her shoulder. “You overstep.” Fingers dug into her flesh. Lyanna was already struggling to escape though, thus his grip, even firm as it was, slipped.    

“I believe you must rest,” she answered with supreme poise, knowing herself the winner of their skirmish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The rider preceded the Crown Prince’s arrival only by a couple of hours. Lyanna, who had already been beside herself at the prospect of witnessing a fight which could well go on to be spread as a tale about the land, saw even more reason to fret once her arms were full with tasks such as making certain any association between herself and her betrothed did not suffer. To compound her misfortunes, Lysa Tully had taken to her chambers in protest to her father’s edict that she was not to attempt aiding the squire. And she was to make certain the girl did not do anything foolish as her sister was understandably distraught and more concerned with her future spouse.

Worst of all, the match between her brother and Petyr suffer no delay. The wretch could simply not be permitted to wander about and spread his foul lie, for even if Lyanna knew better than to believe him, there would still be enough ears willing to listen.

Thus, when a flock of rude hounds saw fit to flood the yard, baying and howling the arrival of their guests, Lyanna was not at all surprised to find her head pounding and her stomach squeezing unpleasantly as a cloud of dust rose off of the ground. Brandon’s solid form against her own gave a little comfort. She momentarily took advantage of the support to draw herself together when the Prince dismounted and greeted his host, politely adding that he did not mean to put anyone out yet heard his betrothed yet remained in the man’s home. Lord Tully took the words in his own stride and very nearly bend over to accommodate the other. Being his wife would doubtlessly award him some privileges.

Before long thought, the Prince was trust upon her and his companions, all of them on some hunt, it appeared, were invited to eat and drink. For herself, she let go of her brother’s arm when the men exchanged pleasantries and, hesitating just a moment, placed her hand upon Rhaegar’s. He bent his arm and moved her hand into the newly-formed crook. ”What a time Your Grace has picked to honour us with your presence.”

“Lyanna.” Brandon and his unsubtle protest were ignored.

“And here I’d been hoping you would be glad for my arrival.”

“I, Your Grace, am most glad.” If he was here, he was not elsewhere hearing words likely to dissuade the match she desired. “My brother, however, will find proving his mettle a tad difficult given the challenge he is to face.”

Pale-faced, Brandon sent her a pleading look. Lyanna was determined to go through with the explanation. So she did, in as careful a way as she could muster and giving as little away as she could. “I will not hold his competitor against him,” the Prince laughed, apparently unconcerned. “And when is this to take place.” And just like that Brandon earned himself a bigger audience and a tentative promise that the matter would not spread far. “I do not plan to bring any of my men with me.”

Given the direct manner of Rhaegar’s earlier claim, the two of them were permitted to keep company with one another on the way towards the great hall. Lyanna caught Edmure’s gaze and gave him an encouraging nod. He’d chosen to be Brandon’s squire. But mouth, however, moved for the Prince. “Why did you really come, Your Grace?” She turned her head towards him upon the heel of that.

“For you.” Her eyebrow shot up at that. “I have been thinking about our agreement.” He could not be pulling out. Lyanna tensed. “A long betrothal would be more trouble than it was worth. However, your brother proposed waiting until you reach the age of majority.”

“One year less makes no difference. My lord means well,” she articulated carefully, “but I too would rather not wait. I shall speak to him after this whole nonsense with the squire is past.”

“A very interesting matter, this.” The two of them had managed to fall behind. Lyanna wondered if he had planned it. She gave him a sideways glance and saw that he looked at her as well. “How caught up will they be in this? Much, do you think?”

“Why, Your Grace, it sounds to my ears as though you hope they will be distracted. To what purpose?” There was still a septa lingering in the doorway. She belonged to Lysa, but since Lyanna was a maiden as well, she too benefitted from the care.

He chuckled, presumably in a good mood. “I simply wished to spare you the embarrassment of a proper greeting before an audience.” The septa was still watching. Lyanna subtly shifted so he might be made aware as well. But if Rhaegar saw the woman, he gave no indication.

“A proper greeting? One bows to one’s guests or to those higher I rank. I daresay, Your Grace, you received a proper greeting.”

“For a guest or someone higher in rank. Not for one’s future spouse.” A thrill ran through her at those words. The way he said it, as though he’d ben expecting her to jump in his arms reeked of arrogance. It would be a lie to claim she did not enjoy that. Well-merited pride was nothing to scoff at.

“Embarrassment fades.” She truly should not ne encouraging him. He might get some impressions which were not in line with the truth. “And I am glad that you have come.” She let go of his arm and drew to a halt. One hand raised to his shoulder, she turned to face him fully. “There can be no harm, I suppose, in greeting one’s betrothed properly.”

Her pretty speech reverberated between them as he took her hand off his shoulder and raised it to his lips, grazing the inside of her wrist ever so softly. She dared a glance at the septa. Her eyes were downcast but she had not left.

“Do not worry about her,” Rhaegar finally deigned to say, “she can do no harm.”

“Was that a proper greeting?”

“Not nearly.”

“Oh.” His released her wrist. One of his arms snaked around her waist, tugging her indecently close.

“A hug would be more proper.” Hugs; she had received several during her lifetime. Many from close kin. He felt nowhere near as comfortable as one of her brothers. Blood boiling uncomfortably, she eased her own hands around him. His other arm was a band of hear around her shoulders. She tipped her head back, staring up into his face.

“So this is a proper greeting?” Her breath hitched upon the last syllable as his fingers rubbed careful circles into the small of her back.

“Almost.” What more could there be?

He did not leave her wondering for long. The gap between them closed completely as her lungs decried the lack of air when his lips sealed themselves against hers. The sole similarity to previous kisses was the melding of flesh. This was a more tentative attempt, joining curiosity with exploration. For what reason she parted her lips, Lyanna was uncertain, as no air was likely to part them. But she had and whatever he understood had him angling her head so that an even more startling event occurred.

She yelped, struck by the unexpected intimate caress.

He drew back, searching her face with solicitous attention. Someone, the septa, coughed lightly.

“That, my lady, is a proper greeting.” She would have been dreadfully embarrassed to allow such a display before company. He was up to something.

“Might be we should refine my knowledge about proper greetings,” she murmured, only half-considering the implications. A blush stole over her cheeks nevertheless and she drew away. He allowed her escape.

“Might be we should.” Was he testing her boundaries, wondering if she would allow him some, how to even consider it, more precious boon?

“Alas, that will have to wait.” Better squash any hope of it now. “We should not keep our host waiting.”

Again, he allowed her the escape and she took it with as much grace as she could muster. Her face felt as though the skin burned with fever. Lyanna just hoped she did not look the part of feverish unfortunate souls to match. Brandon might wonder, and insist that she sit with him. And then she could not work ion her own plans.

Yet her kin was too caught up in preparations to give her much thought and the Prince saw to his own men. Lyanna had, as she’d hoped. And she had but the ladies of the house to converse with, neither of whom were particularly keen on sharing words. She did not have much suffering to pull through as a consequence and could without much trouble see to her machinations. Young Edmure caught her eye once more as she leaned in to speak to her brother. She would do well to not forget the worst was not behind them yet.

“His Grace is paying you an awful lot of attention,” Catelyn remarked gently, and discreetly, leaning over to whisper. Her sister, meantime, stabbed at the chopped beats of lamprey on her plate. She did not glance his way. It was true that Rhaegar saw to his men and equally true that his eyes roamed back to her every now and again. It did not take much on her part to figure out what it was he was watching for.

“He pays mind to my interactions,” she answered lightly a bit of roasted potato in her mouth. “It is nothing to pay too much mind to.” But might be it was just the thing the eldest Tully girl needed. Lyanna paused, her fork held mid-drop. “Should I be worried, do you think?”

“No, I beg you wouldn’t. He must have simply been taken aback by the situation.” It had not seemed like that to Lyanna, but she held her peace. All in all the situation was turning out better than she had anticipated. “If anything,” her nearly good-sister, “the circumstances of our acquaintance are regrettable enough that I should be the one who is worried.”

Her stare clashed with Rhaegar’s and she leaned back in her seat, trying to convey what words would not accomplish. His lips drew in a slight smile before he returned to his conversation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing will have to wait a bit, I'm afraid. Oh well, I'm off to celebrate yet another wonderful birthday, so I leave you with this shoddy chapter and my sincere apologies.
> 
> Tell me what you think so far of my most unoriginal piece yet.


	6. Act II

**ACT II.**

_ O the fairest among women, what is thy well-beloved more than other well-beloved? what is thy well-beloved more than another lover, that thou dost so charge us? _

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Steady now,” Brandon murmured soothingly, his hands working on the laces of her boot. Lyanna had her other leg firmly planted upon the ground while the troublesome limb her brother indulged with his inspection was resting upon his bended knee. While she had tried telling him he’s no reason to worry, the man, predictably, commanded her compliance and set about inspecting the presumed injury. Her weight bearing down upon his shoulders, Lyanna tried not to be too put out.

“Hurry along,” she insisted nevertheless, eyeing the trees around with suspicion. Once she was safely in the wheelhouse once more she would, no doubt, feel a lot better. It was the silence; ‘twas all. But then she should have expected silence. To be entirely fair, there was the sound of human activity coming from a few paces away, their retinue hard at work in ensuring the spokes of the wheel has not broken.

She could make out Halwyn Umber’s frame and the daintier form of Brandon’s new wife. They were speaking, low enough that ‘twas but an incoherent string of sounds. Lyanna winced and tire her gaze from the couple. She glanced down at her brother, leaning to glimpse at her foot. The stocking bore a hole, exposing broken skin. She sucked in a breath as his thumb pressed the wound. “Brandon, I pray you, put an end to this. You can well see ‘tis not lethal.”

“I need to check for splinters.” The mutinous line of her lips eased when he gazed up at her, an apology in his eyes. “I’ve no desire to cause you pain.” She nodded, mainly because she knew it was the truth of the matter. “Hold the skirts.”

Releasing one of his shoulders, Lyanna fisted a hand into the thick material of her travelling garb, flushing. He was her brother and she kept only the bare minimum of secrets from him. That still did not mean she was comfortable with his hands searching for her garter. But find the thing he did. Brandon gently undid the strip of sturdy cloth. It fell, without his guidance, to the ground. He then hooked a finger behind the edge of the stocking and drew it down gently. Cool air touched wool-warmed skin. Lyanna shivered but refused to make a complaint. Soon enough he’d reached her ankle and the material was drawn over the wound causing her to gasp at the sting.

She’s had worse hurts during her time. Long hours on the road, accompanied by her own worries worked to soften her towards these tiny comfort-thieving incidents and she could no more help her reaction that she could keep nature from hollowing its own will.

Before long fingers prodded at her wound, stretching the torn skin ever so lightly. It still stung; she comforted herself with gripping her brother’s shoulder and her skirts all the more tight. “Almost there,” Brandon said, “I see no splinters.” He applied pressure. “How does this feel?”

“Irritating.” Again, he looked up, a question in his eyes. “I told you there was no splinter.”

He helped her put the stocking back on and even tied her garter for her despite vigorous protests. “Nonsense. I am your brother and your wellbeing is a priority to me, even more so than your sensibilities.” Her sensibilities were not the issue. She, nevertheless, backed down when faced with his words and accepted that he would coddle her. It was what brothers did, he assured her, gently holding her foot up to match it with her now hole-sporting boot.

“I can tie the laces on my own.” It was a small wound. The bleeding would stop on its own. She would not carry on as though she was at earth’s door. Before he could do anything else, her foot was planted firmly upon the ground and she bent to tie the laces, noting with only a small spark of satisfaction that his breeches had been dusted from their encounter with the sole of her shoe.

“Stubborn girl. Will you carry on so with the Prince as well?” he challenged, standing to his feet and dusting himself off. “Men do not like being thwarted in their attempts at chivalry.”

“I did not thwart you in the least,” she argued with a light voice, firmly tugging on the laces. “You saw what you wanted to see.” Somehow she doubted her reaction to the Prince removing that particular garment would have left her much to protest at, Mainly because, and she was not fool enough to deny what was in her head, she was curious as to what his touch would uncover. “Shall we go now, afore they grow bored and ride without us.”

Respite was at an end. So much was signalled by Brandon when he nodded vigorously and took her by the arm, a relic of their days as children, she considered, following along without protest. Her leg did bother her slightly and it was most assuring to have him close by.

Catelyn broke away from the rider she had been conversing with and approached them. “How is it, good-sister?”

“Well, indeed,” Lyanna beamed at her. “You are an expert in removing pesky wood pieces, I am certain you will be delighted to know. Truly, I am well. I doubt I shall feel the effects of this unfortunate event in a few days’ time.”

“That was all I needed to know.” Relief played across her good-sister’s features. Lyanna was starting to feel for her. This when guilt assailed her and the smile she sported threatened to collapse, she turned to her brother for guidance.

“Are we to leave then?” her guilt would not go away, that much she knew. But Lyanna would simply have to endure and play ignorant. It was not her place to bring anything to her brother’s marriage. That was for Brandon to do.

“We ought to if we are to ever finish this blasted journey.” Brandon handed the both of them in the wheelhouse and closed the door behind, leaving Catelyn to latch it.

Unfortunately, that left Lyanna quite alone with her good-sister. “What is it? You do not look very well.” One hand shot out to grab at her arm. “You are well, truly?”

Beads of sweat broke across her nape, cold and damp. She brely held back from wiping the moisture away. What could she say to that? Her mind circled around the issue. And then she came upon a though. And relief followed. “The forest makes me feel uneasy. Too much silence.”

“Silence?” Catelyn echoed. “I daresay a bit of silence is a good thing. The very best.” Her eyes clouded over and one needn’t be highly refined as far as intellect went to figure out she relieved, quite visibly, the turmoil of her last days in her father’s home. In spite of a banquet to celebrate her nuptials, Petyr Baelish had accomplished, without fail, what he set out to do. In a sense, Catelyn’s joy had been ripped from her.

“Not that manner of silence,” Lyanna pressed on, hoping to distract her. “It feels as though we are living the calm before the storm.” She bit her lower lip in indecision. Ought she take it further? “Might be ‘tis only the fatigue.” Yet one did hear such stories.

No matter. The entire thing was foolish. She could not suspect danger when there was no proof for it. “Of course it is only the fatigue,” her kin assured, patting her arm lightly. “And your nerves must be making matters worse. Every bride is nervous, so do not think to deny it.”

But it was not nervousness precisely. A shyness more like it. “Might be a little nervous,” she allowed. ”I am not worries though.”

“I should think not; with the way His Grace courted you ‘tis little wonder that you won’t be exchanging your vows fresh from the wheelhouse.” Catelyn chuckled. “What could be the cause of your nervousness then?”

They had not been that eager. And excepting that proper greeting Rhaegar had introduced her to, their exchanges remained relatively tame. “I cannot explain it, I do not think.” Even her words were coming out wrong. She had been hoping her understanding of the man would have deepened, yet it remained much as it had been before; woefully low.

“Try.” She sighed and for a moment considered ending the conversation.

“How does one serve one’s purpose without knowing key factors about the position they are bound to occupy?” How could she gain his aid, more importantly.

“No one is born knowing every little detail about their purpose,” Catelyn said after a moment of consideration. “You would have to observe this environment you shall be placed in; see for yourself what needs to be done, what can be done, and, more importantly, what you yourself are willing to do.”

“What if I cannot see it?” The very thought was frustrating.

“Then you shall make a guess and if you stumble, you stumble. Stand back up and make another guess. You are bound to come across the right answer sometime, are you not?” Her nod was uncertain at best, Lyanna knew, but she gave it nonetheless, allowing the sprig of hope some leeway.

“This might have been so much easier for the both of us had we a mother to turn to, do you not think?” In such moments, the absence of a motherly figure, and not simply a cold disciplinary substitute, was felt rather keenly.

“Well, then now; you have me and I have you. Between the two of us, I believe we shall manage somehow,” Catelyn proclaimed, reminding Lyanna just why it was she ought not to grow too attached. Attachments necessitated commitment. “Do you still remember yours?”

Instinct dictated that she pause. So Lyanna did. Her mind whirled to a halt. A foggy image presented itself to her. “She was a Stark, cousin to my father. If I wish to see her I need only look as far as my nearest brother.”

“Or a looking glass.” A small smile touched her lips. “But do you remember her?”

“She embroidered beautifully,” Lyanna managed somehow. While the fact was no secret in Winterfell, she had never had a chance or an inclination to share the knowledge with anyone. !I would sit and watch and pray that someday I too could match her skill.” Her eyes rose to Catelyn’s. “I haven’t the patience.”

“My mother sang.” The admission was swiftly joined by a smile. “She had the sweetest voice. I can still hear it sometimes, but mostly I simply feel.” That did tent to be the case. “She desperately wanted to give father more sons.” Clouds gathered yet again.

“Such matters cannot be helped.” Reaching out, she sympathetically squeezed Catelyn’s hand.

“She died in childbed.” That Lyanna had known. “I never truly allowed myself to examine that fact too closely. Being born a woman, it Is my lot in life to wed. To bear my husband’s children forth.”

“That bit of wood might have easily lodged itself into my heart,” Lyanna offered after a brief silence. “An arrow might be released from its bowstring only to pierce and kill an innocent man. “ She shrugged. “You might die in childbed, certainly.” This time she allowed the silence to fully settle in, giving her good-sister time to contemplate her own mortality. After what she felt was an appropriate amount of time, she went on. “But you could also survive. What would that be like? To hold your child close to you?”

Lyanna had every intention of holding her own babe. She would survive and she would carry on and she would avenge her father’s death. That was her bond. She would carry on his legacy.

“Worth the risk,” the other woman answered. “It does not mitigate the fear.”

“Courage is not the absence of fear; ‘tis the will and effort to carry on in spite of the fear.” And upon such a matter might be that sufficed.

They fell into companionable silence, with Catelyn leaning her head back against the wall, closing her eyes against the thin streams of light making it through the latticed window. She considered drawing a panel over it, but then the natural light would be wasted and no air would waft in. Besides which, she could smell a storm brewing.

There was little for her to do other than inspect her skirts for lint and avoid thinking of her injured foot. It was truly not so bad, the ache had dwindled to a dull throb; constant, rhythmical, but not bad enough to be anything other than maddeningly persistent. She resisted the urge to feel her way along it as well. That would not help.

Once within the Red Keep she could simply ask a servant to bring her some lotion for it. Bayberry oil or possibly some olive oil for a base. She could just as well ask for garlic, but that would be much too obvious. And the odour would be strong. A drop of honey for thickness and some marjoram. That could not go amiss, could it? Hopefully it would not raise too many eyebrows either. Then she would rid herself of the boots, bury them beneath her kirtles.

A small smile flared upon her lips at the thought. She pleated her skirt absently, fingers stroking over the light-coloured cloth of the overskirt. It was a plain garb by all accounts, the only decorations thin embroidered edges. Not a single line of lace in sight. She supposed fretting made no difference. But then might be she should change into something else before setting eyes upon Rhaegar. The North had made little enough impact upon the realm thus far. Eyes would be upon her the moment she stepped forth. The desire to sigh was nearly insurmountable. It was certainly not the time to mentally organise her wardrobe.

The wheel met yet another rut on the road but this time, she knew better than to allow her weight to send her stumbling over. She grabbed onto the back of the bench, nails digging into the wood. She managed to avoid yet another injury; by a hair’s breadth, it had to be said. Still, Lyanna experienced a moment of pleasure at her triumph and settled back against the solid form at her back. She had not even aggravated the proof of her earlier mishap.

Catelyn had apparently fallen asleep as she came to with a strange noise. Lyanna assured her that they were perfectly safe. “These roads truly are a horror.” Her good-sister laughed, which had been Lyanna’s objective.

“I say. We should be grateful there are no brigands about.” Lyanna offered brief agreement before the wheelhouse lurched to a sudden halt. The whole structure leaned precariously to the side causing more than its fair share of gasps from both inhabitants. Catelyn unlatched the door.

Before long, it was thrown open by an irate looking Brandon. He glowered menacingly, favouring sister and wife alike with his foul mood. “Two spokes broke,” he announced. “We ride; unless you’d prefer finding sleeping chambers for the foreseeable future.” A wheel would take some time to replace, what with the their relative distance from any competent man and the fact that such matters oft involved much work.

Lyanna allowed her brother to see to his wife first, not fussing when Brandon held a hand out to her good-sister. Catelyn though somewhat put out at the prospect of a long ride did not allow it to sour her mood too much. She heard, though she did not mean to, a rather rousing line. “Yet more riding after long hours of riding.” Perceiving that such words were not in relation to a cantankerous mare, she could only assume it was some sort of euphemism the woman made use of. Thus she watched Brandon’s face for confirmation.

True to form, Brandon chuckled. “Now, now; you must accustomed yourself to the rigours, my lady.” The grin on his face was simply the final nail in the coffin. 

Careful of giving away that she had heard the exchange, Lyanna glanced towards the wall mostly to hide the flames in her cheeks. Gods, were all newlyweds so very concerned with the affairs of their bedchamber?

“Comes, sister,” her brother’s voice broke her out of her reverie. She looked in time to see his hand stretched out towards her, the tips of his fingers pointed heavenwards. Was there anything to do but place her hand in his and offer a brief smile? She came down with a hop, landing on her uninjured leg. “You never allow for any of it to get you down, do you?”

“What would be the point of that?” He pursed his lips in silent admonishment and she, unwilling to cede there was a chance he’d meant well, simply shrugged.

Her pretty mare was brought forth. The creature threw its head back, hooves striking against the ground. “As impatient as her mistress,” her brother observed, moving away to lift his bride onto the horse brought for Catelyn.

Halwyn Umber, who must have been nearby, clasped her waist between his broad hands and lifted her to the saddle, placing her sideways upon it. “No sense in bothering the wound, my lady.”

“No sense, indeed.” Lyanna gripped the reins, wounding the leather around her fingers, the thick ribbons pressing almost painfully into her flesh. The rest of the riders were mounted as well. Thankfully, that made up for time lost by setting a fierce pace. All in all, it was not quite the worst thing to have happened to her, Lyanna considered. Even her injury gave her little pain when her leg involuntarily moved.

By nightfall they had reached an appropriately wide clearing, allowing for tents to be set up. A great fire was lit near the middle, banked by the widest boulders that could be moved. Lyanna was not prepared to go to sleep just yet though, thus she approached her brother and sat down next to him.

“We ride early on the morrow,” he warned not a moment later, unclasping his cloak with deft movements. He hefted the garb over her shoulders as a harsh wind ruffled his already rumpled hair. “You could share with Catelyn.”

She rolled her shoulders, grasping one end of the cloak and drawing it tighter around herself. “I do not need your lady wife, brother. I would not be as cruel as to steal her from someone who needs her more.”

A flask landed on his lap, interrupting their conversation. Her brother uncorked it and took a hearty swing. He handed it to her, with a slight lift of one eyebrow. “Good ale; will put you right to sleep.”

“I can fain go to sleep without the ale.” She returned his cloak and stood to her feet, shaking her skirts out. “Until the first light then.” He nodded.

As to his idea of her joining Catelyn, it was neigh impossible for her to wedge herself between the two of them, not to mention it would be rather ill-advised. Might be if Ned had been along they could have shared. He would have undoubtedly been close enough that ending up under a blanket as during their childhood days would raise no eyebrows. Nevertheless, those days were long gone and she had no desire to revisit helplessness anymore than she imagined the hunted prey wished to face the hunter yet again.

Her tent awaited, furs stretched out. She did not brother removing her cloak. The night air and open tent flap ensured her need for it would not vanish. Harrenhal had been infinitely more comfortable with its sea of tents and the sound of life swirling about. Still, she could hear her brother’s men milling about, though he had made it clear they rode off early come morning. It was comforting, in a way, to have the constancy; it meant all was well.

Her earlier unease reared its head once more, sniffing about like a hungry hound. She tampered it down, grounding her heel upon its head with considerable force, hiding her face away from the low light of a burning fire. There was no reason to worry.

Sleep came once her body sank in the mound of furs, warmed, lulled into comfort. No dreams disturbed her slumber, leaving her at sea, more or less, having expected the accumulated tension to burst over. It was with some relief that she opened her eyes to the grey light of morning, her ears assaulted by the cheery chirping of winged heralds, to find she lacked any recollection of night terrors. Relief released in a puff of mist. She rolled on her side, leg instinctively kicking at the bindings keeping her immobile. It gave way, the coolness of the morning hour making its presence felt.

Yawning, Lyanna dragged herself from under the weight of her cloak and staggered to her feet. A frown momentarily struck through the permeating layer of comfort as her wound throbbed, vague pain flaring to life as she rested some weight on the injured limb. Firmly established in her feet, though, she moved with swift steps towards a small satchel lying unattended in a corner. Lyanna followed through with her morning ritual, sighing at the hopeless state of her hair. Had she the foresight to braid it, she might have avoided several knots. Her fingers combed listlessly through the tangles. Nothing could be done in the absence of a comb and hers was somewhere at the bottom of a trunk. Twisting the mass of hair over one shoulder, she deemed that enough to appease her own vanity for the time being.

As expected, morning brought with it lively conversation and more than its fair share of activity. Catelyn waved her over from near the horses. The tent she had undoubtedly shared with her husband was being made short work of by a few men. “And a good morning to you,” the elder said, her smile bright as a sunrise.

Making a show of shielding her eyes, Lyanna offered her answer, “Morning rarely are good.” But then her good-sister had woken in the arms of a husband. That might well change a woman’s perspective. If the right husband were present. Nevermind that her brother would prove his nature sooner or later. Preferably later, when she was nowhere near to witness the fallout.

“Would you like a bite of something?” Catelyn pushed in her hands a thick slice of bread upon which cheese had been broken. “The morning might look a lot better on a full stomach.”

She bit into the offering and chewed in a hurry. “The gods only know.” All around them the activity drew to a halt. At least as far as gathering camp was concerned. “Would that we reached King’s Landing faster. These roads are truly a fright.”

“Petition His Majesty. As his good-daughter you will surely have ample opportunity to solve the matter to your satisfaction.” A good idea, which would have had some merit where the King not a madman.

“I will consider it with utmost diligence,” she promised nevertheless, in anticipation of many a conversation during which she imagined the words would be warranted. “Were we in Winterfell, at this time I’d be riding to my heart’s content.”

“Despite your dislike for the early hours?” Catelyn teased.

“Very much so; with three brothers, all of whom are remarkably talented of playing dog’s tail, I had to gain some advantage. The early hours always seemed like the best option.”

“Evening were not amenable?”

“The evening themselves had no complaints, I am certain. But those belonged to the maester and his Valyrian tales, just as the late night was our wetnurse’s.”

“Old Nan?” the readhead guessed.

“Indeed. She had the most frightening tales. I oft wondered whether father would consider having her teach our lessons.” She laughed. “It certainly seemed, to me, at least, their nature was much more interesting than conjugations, heraldry and history.”

“And how did you reconcile with the maester’s lessons?”

“With patience, I daresay, and a switch or two, expertly applied.” Her smile dwindled. “Brandon was, from what I understood, even less interested in his lessons. I think the poor maester despaired of having to labour when the pupils were so ungrateful. The truth of the matter is, I grew up.” And after father’s death and mother’s departure there had been no reason to refuse the familiarity of the maester’s lessons.

“All of us do.”

Their conversation met a hasty end, with the horses being mounted. As before, Lyanna took her mare in possession and together they rode alongside her good-sister, between sturdy sentinels charged with their protection.  It was not a sight which should have stirred too much attention, but it was certainly one which gladdened Lyanna’s heart when the first arrow flew past them.

Brigands in the wilds, who would have guessed? The best course of action would have been to find an escape. Baring that possibility were the knaves closing in on them and the fact that unarmed, she could be set upon at any moment.

“Well, well; what is your hurry?” a voice cracked from ahead. “Stay and exchange a few words with fellow travellers.”

“Tempting as the offer is, we are here on the King’s business. No time to waste, one of Brandon’s men answered. That, Lyanna suspected, would not be enough to stop the attackers. “Best you not keep our way, my good man.”

“The King’s business, is it?” the same man from before replied. “He is expecting you then?” And they, she was beginning to see, expected a nice sum of coin in return for releasing them. How unfortunate to have stepped in their path. “How’s about you come with us, good people, and rest at our fire?”

The trouble was she could not make out how many there were. Despite her best attempts to provide a number, all she could make out was hazy forms behind trees. More than one man could have pressed his frame to the trunk.

Brandon, short of temper, snapped, “I would not recommend forcing our hand, good man. Make way and depart at leisure; oppose, and depart at mine.” It must have been the wrong thing to say for another arrow flew by, this one narrowly missing her brother’s face. It lodged into a tree branch.

“There is only a score of you.” And a few women, but she was glad that he chose not to acknowledge her and Catelyn for the time being. All the better to slip from their clutches.

“ Yes. It hardly seems fair to have such an advantage.” That attracted some amused chuckled. “Let us pass.”

“I will not.” Blades were unsheathed. Bowstrings were drawn.

She had to admit that when her stomach coiled in a tight rope of nerves, Lyanna had expected something like the wheelhouse incident, a broken wheel, a thrown shoe, good gods, even a tumble in an embarrassing display of clumsiness; a horde of thieves had not even featured in her thoughts. Not for a moment.

Might be it should have.

Their pursuers, however, must have made quite the impression beforehand as they themselves were being hunted. By Kingsguards no less. Lyanna gasped as recognition set in, of the white cloaks and battle-ready enthusiasm. And her mind started working. Recently, Ser Barristan Selmy had rescued a lady from the clutches of a brotherhood of some sorts. A brotherhood that prowled the Kingaroad in search of victims.

Little wonder the tourney had seen no rouble. There would have been far too many knights travelling, a veritable army of men-t-arms following. The vagrants must have used the opportunity to strengthen their numbers and possibly plot some schemes.

As such matters usually proceeded, the song of steel filled her ears, leaving her in no doubt that some spot away from the fray was the best she could hope for. Catelyn was of a mind, for when Lyanna called that they should retreat nearer to the line of trees, she gave a nod. A man made to grab at her. It would have been fairly easy to drag her off her horse, but for the boot Lyanna planted in his face with enough force to send him reeling backwards. He tumbled down, head striking against the ground. One of Brandon’s men planted a sword in his throat. Catelyn, meantime, made use of a short, sharp riding stick, which she wielded with expert precision. She was aided shortly by the same man who had done Lyanna a service.

Head snapping towards a particularly loud sound, Lyanna caught sight of young Jaime Lannister facing against a tall, thin man who rained down blows upon his shield unnumbered and unrelenting. Yet the Lannister boy held his ground, too foolish or too obstinate to understand where he was headed. His foe, whoever the man was, grinned madly as his blow nearly struck the young Kingsguard to the ground.

Thankfully, the youngest knight to have ever received the honour of joining the Kingsguard, though such a thing was dubious at best given who the King was, was not entirely friendless in his struggle. One of his brothers-in-arms jumped to his defence; the better to catch their foe off-guard. The man, though, had been expecting such subterfuge. He nimbly swung himself out of the way, blade cutting through thin air.  

Jaime Lannister took a step back, lowering the shield some. The battle raged on around them. The second knight, whose deportment was more and more familiar to her by the minute, appeared to lift his sowrd in some semblance of battlefield etiquette. The thief threw his head back in laughter but followed suit a moment later, lips moving rapidly. The youngest Kingsguard gasped. Would that she were a fly on the wall. It was nigh impossible to figure out what had been said, but the challenger drew back, the arc his sword cut nothing short of a perfect shape.

Brandon came in sight, blocking her view of the Kingsguards and the outlaw. Her attention shifted to her brother whose weapon sliced into his opponent, the movement elegant in its vigour; she had the undeniable urge to mimic him, but she had no weapon on her and one of Brandon’s soldiers stood before her and Catelyn, menacingly holding his sword before him.

And then her kin dashed about, leaving her field of vision free. Free enough to see the Kingsguard bring down his weapon upon the brigand, sending him stumbling. Yet the man was no so easily defeated. Jaime Lannister, for an instance, looked as though he might intervene. Before he could make up his mind one way or another, he was engaged by a lithe figure.

“Is that a woman?” her good-sister leaned forth in her saddle, hands gripping the reins so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“I think it must be.” She squinted in the general direction of the moving figures. “It certainly seems to be the case.”  The worst part had to be that the lion cub was not, in fact, exercising the speed she had witnessed not so long ago. Did the fool think to do the woman any favours?

“By the Father’s beard,” the other female muttered. “Look at him.”

With some difficulty and after one close call too many, the newly minted Kingsguard seemed to have some semblance of reasonable thought as he launched into an attack of his own, using both momentum and surprise to push back against his  foe. The woman met his lashing steadily enough, more than likely not impressed; but she the young man went on, it became clearer and clearer that she could not hold up forever against his blow. His victory close at hand, Lord Lannister’s eldest son was just about to throw himself in yet another swing when his opponent turned tail and fled.

“Coward.”

“More than likely. But she will live for her effort.”

Not so lucky was the other enemy that had caught Lyanna’s attention. That one had somehow landed on his knees, a broadsword firmly planted in his chest. The Kingsguard drew back his weapon, with some relish, she imagined, and a spray of blood wet the ground, droplets landing whichever where they could. And the Kingsguard took off his helm, leaving Lyanna jn no doubt that she ougt to have paid him mind from the beginning.

If only she had known.

“Ser Arthur,” she murmured.

“Arthur Dayne?” Catelyn question from her position at her side, her tone suggesting a certain level of admiration.

“In the flesh,” Lyanna confirmed. Doubtlessly, they had not been sent out to meet them, but their presence worked go ensure a safer environment altogether.

Ser Arthur Dayne, famed knight, took in the fruit of his labour, expression hardened by the situation. It was the most serious she had seen him yet. But then he was looking up and around, eyes landing on her. They widened in recognition and a curl of lips followed. Lyanna inclined her head in return.

“My, now that merits some attention. Such a warm greeting.” At Catelyn’s insinuation, she whirled her head in the other’s direction, feeling a blush take over.

“Not at all.” A warm greeting to her would be something in the veins of what she’d been given by her betrothed. And if she continued with that line of thinking it would be a small wonder that she did not burst out into flames. “I met him at Harrenhal.”  

Any other explanation would have to wait though as her brother returned to their side, covered in more than his fair share of gore. His weapon dripped blood upon the ground. Lyanna made a sound of disgust at the sight and pulled on her mare’s reins, lest any of the mess be splattered on her kirtle. By no means a kirtle worthy of admiration, but nonetheless not one she had any wish to see destroyed.

“Injuries?” Brandon demanded gruffly, presumably of both of them. He sounded winded. Had Lyanna not known any better, she would have suspected him of being worried.

“None,” she answered. Catelyn nodded in agreement. “Do you not think those who have aided us deserve some gratitude?”

“They aided us by happenstance.” As if that made the value of their gesture less. Nonetheless, Brandon turned right around and made his way to the two men. She could not make out what was being said, but she could tell from the expressions on their faces that the whole of it would come to a good end. Her suspicion was confirmed when Brandon clasped a hand on Ser Arthur’s shoulder and the man mirrored the movement.       

Then they made their way towards her and Catelyn. The youngest member of the Kingsguard followed in their wake. “Fine day to be travelling the roads,” the older knight commented, lips curled in a half-smile.

“Especially in good company,” Catelyn offered, apparently in her element. Why that should take Lyanna by surprise she did not know, except that somehow she had expected she would have to be the one to speak on account of an earlier acquaintance.

Arthur glanced from her towards her good-sister and nodded his agreement. “That gladdens my heart for a certain, my lady, considering my companion and I needs must join your party.”

“Do you fear more outlaws on the road?” Lyanna finally found her voice to question, slightly worry rising. One attack was more than sufficient. Not to mention they had had enough good fortune to last them a lifetime. As far as she could tell, no one had suffered severe injuries and no casualties were to be observed.

“’Tis my hope that is not the case, however, I would not trust these brigands as far as I can throw them. Best to assured, would you not agree?” He spoke so sensibly. It was so very easy to forget she was stil slightly miffed with him for earlier transgressions.

“Well spoken.” And that was Brandon’s tone when he’d had more than enough of idle chatter and would rather they were on their way.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, goodbye hospital food and hello new chapter. Sorry for the long wait but due to shoddy health I have been detained...however I am now out and about, ready to terrorize you some more with sucky story chapters.
> 
> It would probably make me feel better to have some comments, at least to know that I am heading in the right direction, :)), but, hey, no pressure.
> 
> With the hope that y'all are having a better time of it than me, I bid you adieu and return to plotting.
> 
> Best regards!


	7. Scene II (II)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Admitting to one's mistakes was possibly one of the hardest things to do. Lyanna was not too infatuated with her own intellect that she could not do so though when necessary. It remained, however, one of the most unpleasant tasks she had ever been faced with. Nevertheless, her eyes fell upon young Jaime Lannister whose passionate recount of his encounter with the grinning terror, the one they called the Smiling Knight. She listened, nodding politely every once in a while.

"So young and already destined for greatness," she said at the end of it, shifting slightly in the saddle. Her mare snorted, as though she could read through the layered sweetness. "Your kin must be very proud, yes?" Something flittered across his face. Lyanna could not name the emotion whatever it was, he covered it within a moment's notice.

"I imagine they are, my lady." He was not a young fool chasing glory. But he was young and glory did find him. The only remaining piece of assessment regarded whether he was a fool or not. And that, she'd need more time to dwell upon before reaching conclusions. Likely as not, it would also require further demonstrations on his part.

"Come now, there is no need for modesty," she teased lightly. Jaime's face flushed. She wondered whether that was her doing. "I am certainly in awe." For all the good that did. "One can only hope all knights follow your example, ser,"

He chuckled, stirring the reins with one hand. Lyanna might have told him it would be better to do it with both, but then she needn't concern herself with Jaime Lannister. "You are rather good at flattery, my lady, I must admit. Do you not fear engaging my heart?" Surprise shot through her. One eyebrow raised in inquiry, she kept her gaze upon the young man. "It implies one of two things," Jaime explained of his own volition, "either you undervalue your appeal, or you undervalue mine. I've yet to decide which is worse."

It was her turn to chuckle. She'd not expected him to embroil her in such a game. "I assure you, ser, I undervalue neither of us." He cocked his head to the side, an unspoken question upon his lips. Strange how she hadn't noticed that despite his youth, he was still very charming. One of his many graces, Lyanna supposed, her own smile faltering slightly. "But even if I were to undervalue either one of us, I don't expect it might cause quite the ripples you are envisioning."

The knight shrugged. "Far be it from me to tell, my lady." She breathed out in relief. Jaime seemed pleased as well to move on to another subject. She followed his lead, more or less aware that his brother-in-arms broke away from her kin and waited for the both of them to reach his side.

Between the two men, Lyanna was not quite certain to whom her attention should go. Ser Arthur solved that quandary for her. "If you would be so good, Jaime, I believe Lord Stark wishes to put some questions to you." Dutifully, his young companion cantered off.

"If I did not know any better, ser," she began, twisting the reins tighter around her wrists, "I would call that an attempt to put some distance between Ser Jaime and me. But why ever would you do so, I wonder."

Predictably enough, his response was a soft chuckle. "You are most amusing, my lady. If I thought there was the slightest chance of danger regarding your conversation, the distance would have been of insurmountable nature." She paused, her mien turning serious as his words. But Arthur did not look bothered by her reaction; he seemed pleased. "You must understand, I made a promise of sorts to a mutual friend."

"A promise?" Lyanna supposed she ought to feel irate at being saddled with a guard dog. But then a guard dog let naught approach its mistress. Arthur was more in the vein of an annoying septa. "Am I so untrustworthy in his eyes?"

The knight shrugged. "That is a question best put to him." He had the right of it. Besides, what had she expected? She certainly did not trust her husband-to-be beyond the length to which she could throw him.

"What promise did you make precisely?" He drew somewhat closer. Lyanna leaned slightly in, half-amused at the antics and the expression he bore.

"That I would see you come to no harm." That made sense. "That is, if I should come upon you." A reasonable request; one she could imagine making for someone she took an interest in. Lyanna accepted the explanation signalling as much by way of a languid nod.

"It was noble of you to add to your burdens, ser." It could not have been an easy thing, to divide himself among so many requests; some of which he could never realistically refuse. That aside, his devotion to the task spoke of a certain dutiful bend to his character. Lyanna tucked away that bit of knowledge with firm expectation that she would benefit from it at aa later time. Indeed, for all his outgoing mannerisms, Arthur Dayne was, at heart, not much different than her poor brother Ned. "I meant to ask, about your sister," she paused, "is there a chance I shall see her at court?"

"Ashara, you mean, my lady?" She nodded, trying to recall whether she'd heard of any other sister of his. But her search yielded no result. Forced back into the current conversation, she did her best to focus. "You shall your fill of her at court, I imagine. My sister has long since cemented herself in the enviable position of court lady."

"Has she, indeed?" No matter; her objective was to find out what precisely the woman's feelings towards her brother were. "That is just as well; I feared I mightn't know any faces and have been much assailed by the notion, in spite of glad tidings."

"Never fear, my lady, you shall know as many people as you wish to." And then some, Lyanna considered silently. For her companion's benefit she plastered a tiny smile to her face.

"Your sister I mean to know particularly well, ser. I was pleasantly surprised by her candour at Harrenhal." While she doubted Lady Ashara had indeed much candour, for who did, in truth, involve themselves in court life and remain sincere; might be those who were simple. The man's sister was far from simple.

"And so you shall. Have you ever been to King's Landing before?" He smiled her way. She liked the smile. In her experience, men were the easier ones to read, by and large. In part due to the forthrightness encouraged in them, she guessed. She'd yet to hear of maesters , or parents for that matter, encouraging their strapping young heirs to engage in veiled behaviour outside political enterprise.

"If you mean to warn me about the," she paused, trying to find the right words, "customary miasma of the place, you needn't worry. That warning I have heard before." Not a delicate thing to say, but certainly not enough to shock her current partner.

"I wish I had thought to warn you nevertheless." His mien turned apologetic. "'Twas another matter I wished to bring up. " Presenting him with her interest, Lyanna urged the knight on. "If you can look beyond the appalling scents, and they truly are something frightening, then there are quite a few entertainments to be enjoyed there."

"Is that so?" Entertainments she was not against. Being only human, a woeful state but one she hadn't the faintest intention of altering, left Lyanna in such a position that she was vulnerable to foibles replicated in her brethren and in equal measure she was swayed by similar performances as they. "You know it well, I take it, King's Landing?"

"Like the back of my hand." And how proud he looked of the fact. She could not help her genuine response to that. "One is not always on duty, my lady. And when there is time, well, knights are not that different from other man at the end of the day, are they?" Weren't they? She shrugged amiably. "That is to say, I enjoy my walks."

"I see. I sometimes find myself cast adrift in Winter town, wandering aimlessly. You must have seen in when you visited my home." He nodded. "During summers it is deserted. Certainly there are very few who settle permanently within. But once winter arrives, it fills with people. Merchants, wandering mummers, singers."

"It must be quite the sight." Agreement came fast. "Might be you shall convince Rhaegar to bring us there come winter. I confess I grow curious."

"I do not suppose it has half the charm of court, but having grown so very near it, it remains dear to my heart." Dare she ask Rhaegar to accompany her though? It was an innocent enough request. It might aid in cementing a bond between them. "There are these cakes; they are served only in winter. I learned 'twas some sort of family recipe and as far as I can discern there is a healthy dose of honey and ginger involved. If only I could guess the rest."

"Now I am well and truly intrigued." She laughed. "No, my lady; do not mock me. Put the promise of good food before a man and you have half won him over." He was so easy to get along with. Like a brother. Her mind reminded her that she had, in effects, assimilated him to that same category earlier.

"Are you suggesting I use the same line of reasoning with His Grace?" It would be a good jest, if the man could appreciate it. But Lyanna was half afraid to try.

"I am suggesting precisely that." He had jested with her, true enough, a time or two. But that had not been at court where he had an image to maintain. Her head shook lightly in disbelief. But Ser Arthur was already painting her a picture of the feat, clearly invested in the notion.

Unable to help herself, she encouraged his exaggerations in turn with a giggle, attracting more than a pair or two of eyes. "No more, good ser. I am convinced." Might be after a year or two, once she had a better claim upon her husband's, well, for the lack of a better word, heart.

Would she though? Lyanna did wonder about that. It did not escape her that her betrothed was as guarded as she. He showed appreciation for her in some measure. That was undeniable, but he spoke not of his reasoning for choosing her. As far as she'd gleaned, it had to do with some sort of agreement between himself and her brother. It was not an upsetting thought. Marriages had been arranged for less. And she did not find him displeasing. But there was a tiny part of her that had hoped for something more, well, simply more.

Shaking her head, as though to dislodge the wayward thought, Lyanna ended up face to face with a concerned knight. "Are you well, my lady? You looked somewhat ill at ease."

"Did I? I apologise, ser. For a moment I was beset by the strangest thoughts." A sigh left her lips. "No matter. I would do better to give that little attention." There, she shoved away the unpleasant remnants and concentrated on what pleased her about the impending nuptials. She would have a husband who was more than easy of the eye, a position far elevated than before and quite possibly more resources than she knew what to do with. She would attain her goal and she would make it so that her marriage, even born out of political reasoning, turned into a fruitful venture.

"If you would like us to stop, we can." She shook her head and was momentarily warmed by his care.

"I assure you I am well." He left it at that, much to her approval. "Tell me, ser, have you been long living in those parts that you should know them like the back of your hand?"

"Long enough. I came to King's Landing as a squire and then, when His Grace and I became particular friends, the fact my lord had need to remain at court came as a blessing, I would say. But to give a clearer answer, I was two and ten or thereabouts."

And he was now older and, presumably wiser. Lyanna, not satisfied, continued with her line of questioning. It was not as though she had other pressing matters to attend to. "For whom did you squire that he should be so requested at court?"

"Ser, as he was known then, Ormond Yronwood. He has since gained lordship." And right proud he seemed of that. Lyanna, for her part, worked backwards through the Yronwood family-line, trying to place Ser Ormond, or lord; whatever he may be.

"Is that not Lord Edgar Yronwood's son? The same Lord Edgar felled in combat by Prince Oberyn?" Arthur confirmed her suspicions. "Where you present when," words failed her. Poison was the weapons of cowards and, occasionally, women according to Maester Walys. Another reason to dislike the Dornish Prince. She could not complain.

"Unfortunately, I was." That ought to provide ample entertainment. "By the look upon your face I can divine I am to be questioned upon the particulars of this adventure." She nodded, not even bothering to hide her curiosity. "Very well, ask away, my lady."

"Was the Prince's blade truly poisoned?" That had to have been the question upon the lips of all those she had ever hard discussing the subject. It remained a mystery. No one had ever been able to say with any amount of certainty whether it was the case or not.

The Dornishman sighed softly and for a brief moment she thought he would deny her after all. "I did not dare cut myself upon its edge and test whether it was poisoned. However, the symptoms I was able to observe in Lord Edgar certainly lent themselves to such a possibility."

"I suppose one cannot possibly ask for more. But why has the Crown not turned its attention upon this matter?" She bit her lip. "'Tis still a grave occurrence, poison or not."

"Lord Edgar put the challenge to the Prince. That he happened to lose was unfortunate. Yet even if he had won, it would have been useless to apply to King and council; the matter was of a personal nature. Besides, one must account for the Faith who would have judged the paramour far harsher than any of the men who fought over her."

"Lord Yronwood cannot have taken it too well. I never did hear what happened to the girl." He did not answer straight away. "Have you any notion?"

"Last I heard she was sent back down to the village." As she should have been. Lyanna nodded, her mind working upon the matter.

In fact, she wondered at the girl getting away with nary a punishment. One was accountable for one's deeds, after all. But then a thought struck her. Likely as not, the poor thing was some common labourer's get, who had little enough skill to make her way in the world, or otherwise knew she could rely on her charms to live a good life. In short, her encounter with the prince might have either threatened her or emboldened her.

"If you do not think it too forward of me, do you know whether Lord Yronwood's paramour was a willing participant in the affair with the Prince?" Just because Oberyn Martell was famed throughout the kingdoms for his skill as a lover, it did not follow that any woman would fall at his feet and bless the dust he trod upon.

"According to her, she was." Arthur shrugged. "Lord Yronwood was past his prime and the Prince, well, I need not point out the obvious." Even so, had she not considered the very real possibility of being caught in the act? The knight chuckled. "Not every single person will think their options through."

"Very true." It need not concern her in any case. Oberyn Martell would, inevitably, plague her for some time but she had no doubt she could contrive something to keep him from being too much in the way. "Might be we ought to leave poor Lord Yronwood and his tragedy behind."

"Might be we'd best do so." And that was the end of it, as far as Lyanna was concerned. The Dornish Prince was certainly not deserving of any further attention from her.

"You and His Grace were close from a start?" she questioned, settling for a subject which could not possibly lead her astray.

"Not at all. His Grace was not entirely kindly disposed towards those of us with an unwavering interest in blades as opposed to the infinitely more valuable attractions of a few hundred scrolls. He found us as insufferable as we found him, I daresay. But we were mere squires and he was the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Why do I get the feeling your reaction involved something potentially dangerous?" Boys had a way of landing themselves in all sorts of mischief.

"We teased him something fierce. Enough that it ended up in a scuffle." For some reason her memory supplied a mock-battle between Brandon and Ned, and she winced. Neither one of her brothers were very prone to holding back, even though the eldest was the more talented one.

"Who won?"

"To tell you truthfully, I haven't the faintest. For someone professing not to be interested in blades, His Grace certainly never seemed at a disadvantage. I can only conclude he took his training seriously despite his dislike for it. I imagine we would have reached some sort of conclusion, however the master-at-arms interrupted."

"My gods, I don't imagine he was happy about the scene."

"No one was, least of all me who got a healthy beating before His Grace could put an end to it."

"And you became thick as thieves after?"

"Not at all, if you would believe it. I was most put out at having been thus interrupted and His Grace seemed to agree, for the next we met was after sundown." Lyanna thought she understood that; after all, there had been no true resolution to the conflict. "He can be rather vicious; especially when he wants to win."

"So he came out the victor?" A wave of satisfaction followed his nod.

"By a hairsbreadth, but there you have it, my lady. I was bested. And then we became thick as thieves, as you put it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The smell was about as enchanting as she had expected it to be. Lyanna could make no valid complaint on that front. Still, to her great fortune, a piece of fabric dabbed in fragrant oils had a beneficial effect upon the odious smell. Just like Catelyn promise it would.

Their arrival, noted by more than one single pair of eyes , stirred some interest, but nowhere near enough for the streets to fill. And truly, the person most worthy of recognition was Ser Arthur Dayne, who was the very same knight attracting admiring looks. Not that she could blame anyone.

By then, however, Lyanna had been pressed in her brother's company and showed little enough interest in the scenery, even one composed of narrow buildings and masses of people. Her mind was firmly set upon another matter altogether. Which matter, distressingly enough, remained elusive in spite of her best attempts at creating a believable picture of it. Wiser heads might have counselled a modicum of faith on her part, and she would have ignored them had they the audacity to proceed with such advice. Left to her own devices, she instead decided she would be best served by a dose of panic and an even greater share of rigid withdraw of palpable reaction.

The better she controlled the timid tendril of panic threatening to wrap themselves around her, the more she could pretend there existed nothing which might cause her discomfort. It was one of the instances in which Lyanna was happy enough lying to herself. Not that such a tactic would be admitted to once the unpleasantness was past. For all that, she remained locked at her brother's side, mute and blind by choice.

Her ruse carried her as far as the gates of the Red Keep; gates which had been thrown open in warm welcome, it appeared, as the horses rode past without as much as a single query put forth or objection raised. If anything, it seemed that she had been the only one giving in to panic. The rest of the realm remained serene in the face of such momentous happenings. This gave her little recourse but to force her own calmness forth and hope she did not give herself away.

Greeting went as those things usually did. Lyanna was helped down by her brother, her injured, sore ankle twinging with the tiniest amount of pain as she pushed through her curtsies. Her gritted teeth went by unnoticed, in part due to the Queen's cordial manner and her women's fluttering about, all questions and in part due to the notable absence of the King.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard took a moment to survey their party before he called his knights aside. Dearly as Lyanna wished she could be a fly on that wall and hear the conversation, her attention snapped back t the matter at hand once she found herself fairly thrust into the Prince's arms. Certainly it was nowhere near as vulgar a display as that, but it was made apparent by the Queen that she would walk within with her son. Lyanna had refusal to give.

"You appear to be favouring one leg above the other, my lady," Rhaegar whispered, apparently comfortable with a collection of curious eyes staring at him. Lyanna, who had no more than a tad of her usual balance, rewarded his observant nature with a grimace. "And hear I thought I'd asked Ser Dayne to see you come to no harm."

With that she was reminded of a young boy who retaliated at the teasing of his peers. Her grimace turned into a smile. "What shall you do, Your Grace? Challenge the man to meet you after sunset?" Shocking enough, her betrothed was not impervious. His eyes flashed. "I pray you wouldn't."

"I am not in the habit of issuing challenges I haven't the intention to win. What happened to your leg?" A mind incapable of letting go. Just as well. Lyanna's hold on his hand became firmer as she leaned more of her weight against him, in spite of the knowledge she needn't his support.

"So I am given to understand." His stare turned into a glare. "'Twas a mishap with the wheelhouse. Nothing more, Your Grace. A piece of wood managed to graze me." He paused, this time forcing her frame into stillness as well. "There was nothing poor Ser Dayne might have done."

He seemed to accept that, but nevertheless removed her hand from his arm. "Are you in pain?"

"No." She returned her hand to his arm. "Not at all, Your Grace. Might be we should not linger without."

His arm moved around her waist and she had little option but to allow her hand to drop. "'Tis not necessary, Your Grace. I can manage."

"I am certain you can, but you needn't." Thus she was obliged to allow him to have his way. Caught against him, there was some support for her, but most of all she managed to gather more attention that before, which did little to assuage her nervousness. "Allow our maester to take a look at your wound."

She had wanted a poultice after all. "If Your Grace insists."

"I do insist." She nodded, allowing him to help her up the stairs.

Once within the confines of rose-brick walls, they were served with ales and wines, salted bread and cheese. Lyanna took a morsel and washed it down with some wine. Her tolerance for ale she could not pride herself with. Her betrothed maintained his position for a short while, but before long he was drawn away by a few lords intent on hearing his opinion upon some matter Lyanna had little knowledge of.

She was not to be alone. The Queen took her son's place, stepping in the spot he'd vacated with the merest hint of a smile upon her lips. "You must let me take a better look at you," she cajoled in a soft voice, as Lyanna gave in to her instinct and took a step back. The Prince's mother reached out for her. "Surely I do not frighten you."

"Not at all," Lyanna answered, forcing herself to relax at the obvious perusal. She wondered what the other woman saw, and if she approved. It made no matter; however, it would bolster her confidence to know she had the approval.

Acutely aware of her shortcomings in the face of such scrutiny, she had little recourse but to put on her best front and hope it might please. She imagined the feeling was not uncommon in those undergoing any manner of inspection. But it still managed to rattle her. Especially considering the Queen gave no signs of either approval or disapproval. At least if she were found lacking, it would be easier to tolerate it if she was aware that such was the woman's opinion on her.

"That is good. I should hate to think my good-daughter walks the halls in fear of me." It was then that Lyanna took note of the two figures standing behind the Queen. Their garb marked them as women of the cloth, as it were, dedicated to the Seven. Lyanna was unable to place their order, but she did not expect it would matter.

The first of them was a corpulent woman, her forehead bathed in sweat. The grey broadcloth of her garments indicated she was not in a high position. The wimple covering her hair, if there was any there, for she might have shorn her locks as some of the devout sisters did, was a faded yellow hue. Her companion, on the other hand, presented herself much better. She wore pristine cloth on her head, her garments neat and clean. Somewhat younger than the other woman, she bore herself with a sense of dignity her sister-in-the-faith lacked. If she did not know any better, she might think one has been born to mean parents and the other to a well-off family. Not unheard of, to be sure.

The Queen was talking to her. Lyanna nodded, trying to catch up. "And once you are settled, I shall like nothing more than to know you better. Rhaegar wrote, of course, and he is truly the best son a mother could ask for. But he is still a man. Men leave out the most important of details."

The best son a mother could ask for. The words rang in her ears. There was something so very warming about hearing such assessments regarding her betrothed. "He wrote?" Of her, she presumed. As far as she was concerned, that was not something she had asked for. This woman had had ample time to prepare herself to face her son's betrothed. She had not had the same advantage.

"As he should." She nodded her head dutifully. There was little to say to that. But she would have to pay mind to the woman. That much she was certain of. "Come now, I mustn't keep you from your rest."

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scarcely had she managed to settle her trunks when a rap to the door called her attention. Tansy clucked her tongue and grumbled to herself but went to the door and opened in at her order. For her part, Lyanna was somewhat surprised to see a young woman in dark garb followed by the Grand Maester.

"My lady, I was informed you suffered a mishap." She felt her face heat up. Rhaegar had mentioned a maester, but she had been hoping it would be an acolyte rather than the old maester. Not certain she wanted his hands anywhere on her despite his impressive knowledge, she nonetheless nodded. "His Grace requested I have a look at your wound. This here," he nodded towards the young woman, "is Coryna."

"Her Majesty requested I remain in your company, my lady." That was not a bad thought at all. She breathed out in relief and delivered a second nod.

"Have a seat," she invited the woman, then motioned towards Tansy. She sat upon the other chair, not daring making use of the bed. Tansy knelt by her and set to releasing her wounded leg. The boot and stocking were put away.

Pycelle elected to have her leg hoisted up. Lyanna was thankful for the many layers clothing her. She did not think she might endure it otherwise. Alas, endure it she must. Lyanna bit her lower lip in an attempt to stifle a sound of revulsion at the cold fingers wrapping around her. It would not do to alienate him so early on. Aside from which, what was cold hands to cold hearts.

Smooth fingers traced the round ring. Her flesh smarted at his attempted inspection. Her first instinct was to draw away. She did not do so in the end. "It looks well cleaned to me. A poultice should suffice for it. If my lady is willing Coryna will be applying it for you as soon as I have prepared it."

"That is acceptable," she answered, her voice wavering only slightly. For that she could have hit herself. "You may come before suppertime to attend me, if you would be so kind."

"No, my lady. I am to remain with you on Her Majesty's orders."

"I see." It would be better to hold her complaints off for some time yet. "Well, then, I shall wait for the poultice, maetser." Understanding the dismissal without her further exerting herself, the man stood and bowed, retreating without, a murmured promise upon his lips.

Left with the servant girl and the companion, Lyanna set Tansy her tasks before allowing her to be off on her way. "Return to me before supper, Tansy, and, pray, do make certain there are no errands you leave unfinished." The servant girl nodded, effacing herself within moments. Once alone with the newly arrived woman, she bent to remove her other boot and stocking, contemplating whether she should ask about the Queen's edict.

"Are you sworn to the Faith?" she heard her own voice put forth.

"Not yet, my lady. I am a novice in the Faith and do not dare call myself by so lofty a title." Lofty? Lyanna smiled. There was little lofty about being forced into service, away from one's family, with no prospects and little to do besides watching the children of other ladies. But then, it might be a step up for girls born in a mud hut.

"A novice. It must be a difficult position to be in. Have you been in King's Landing long?" As she spoke, she rose from her seat and moved to the biggest of the chests, opening the lid in one flowing motion. She dragged out a thick kirtle, meant for comfort.

"Not very long, my lady. A few turns." A few turns was long enough to learn her way about the place, and gain a protectress, or so it appeared.

"If you are to remain with me, might be you would be willing to aid." She held out the dark material and the novice draped it over one arm, allowing her to turn. "Pray loosen those." And she did. Lyanna had not expected any different. "If you are only recently arrived here, where is it that you come from?"

"The Stormlands, my lady. My father worked the land for Lord Buckler." Born in a mud hut indeed. "My mother was the daughter of a brewer. They are both gone now."

Her heart went out to the girl. They were not so very different, despite their opposite stations. "I am sorry to hear that." She shrugged out of her kirtle, allowing it to fall to the floor. Lyanna stepped out of it and pushed it away with her injured foot, electing to rest on the good one. No sense in falling over and bruising her face.

The chemise and smallclothes followed. "I imagine the tub had already been filled in the other chamber." Coryne nodded, and opened the door for Lyanna.

On the other side there was but a tub waiting. The tall wooden structure must have been ages old. The wood was scratched, showing signs of use. She eyed the sheets spilling over the rim with a modicum of distrust. Were they thick enough to keep her skin from getting scalded?

There was only one way to find out. Lyanna climbed atop the footstool and tested the heat of the water. It seemed innocuous enough. She climbed over the edge and lowered herself enough that she was soon in a sitting position. She would not scald herself, but she felt as though low flames were running along her skin.

"Shall I wash your hair, my lady?" Coryna questioned. She felt the girl's hand upon her head, tugging the wet weight of her tresses.

"Do." Meantime, she would wash the rest of herself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What woke her was the muffled sounds. For a moment, bleary-eyed and sluggish, she could only stare in confusion at the form towering over her. Her mind scrambled to make sense out of what stood before her. Frowning, Lyanna turned on her side and forced herself to a sitting position.

"Catelyn? Is aught amiss?" But her good-sister merely shook her head and smiled. Sinking deeper into her current state, she dragged herself to the edge of the bed, pursing her lips at the twinge of pain shooting through her leg.

"Why would anything be amiss?" her good-sister questioned, seeming genuinely amused. "'Tis only that you've spelt for so long and I was beginning to worry you would not wake in time to ready yourself for supper."

That fairly explained her presence. Still, Lyanna could not help but feel a little bit miffed at having been led astray. Her expectations thus let down, her frown turned into a light scowl. "You might have woken me earlier."

"I might have," Catelyn acknowledged, "but you were truly tired and I hadn't the heart. That aside, I am here now and Thyme has pressed your kirtle. Come, unless you hope to make an impression with your hair a bird's nest."

"Tansy," she corrected. Catelyn gave her a confused look. "This one is Tansy. Thyme remains at Winterfell."

A blush coloured her good-sister's cheeks. "I had no idea. And I kept calling her Thyme. This is the trouble with twins." Why that should be, Lyanna did not know; Catelyn had not met Thyme. To confuse them despite only hearing about the twin was something else. "Poor girl; and she did not correct me once."

"I expect Tansy has had her fair share of being called by her sister's name. You needn't fret." Having finally gathered her bearings, she climbed out of bed. She glanced down at her feet, noting for the first time that her ankle had been bound. Coryna must have come in while she was sleeping. "You ought to be readying yourself as well, good-sister." Unlike her, however, Catelyn's hair had been brushed and combed into an elaborate arrangement, she wore a fresh gown and looked, all in all, her best.

"I am more than prepared," Catelyn tsked softly.

Tansy opened the door. She carried a pair of hot irons. "M'lady, glad I am to see you awake. We must make haste."

"There, there; Tansy. The world is not coming to an end."

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, new chapter, new leaf to turn...:)) So, I'm actually in a pretty good mood.
> 
> Today I got no death threats in my inbox, my dog is feeling better after his relapse, the day went pretty well and so far I encountered little stupidity that I've had to deal with.
> 
> Hope your day is going as well as mine. :D Do tell me what you thought about the chapter if you have the time.
> 
> All the best!


	8. Scene III (II)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Though her preparations had been somewhat rushed, Lyanna congratulated herself on being no more late than any other young woman. And though she might have blamed her tardiness on nerves, if need be, she was glad such a ruse was useless presently. Catelyn gave her hand an encouraging squeeze as the herald's voice filled the hall. The betrothal was as good as sealed, she knew, and yet, despite her conviction, a tendril of doubt still managed to cling to her.

The King, seated upon a tall chair, looked about as pleased as a man facing the noose. Nevertheless, she squared her shoulders and drew what confidence she could. Her sure step, perfected along many an hour of grandmother's merciless attentions, served her well. Offering the best obeisance she was capable of, she waited with baited breath. If there was ever a time to raise objections, now would be it.

"Your Majesty," she offered somewhat feebly to her own ears.

Mercifully, all she saw when she raised her gaze to her monarch's was a vague sort of interest. His dispassionate assessment washed uncomfortably over her. "Rise, rise," he allowed. "Take your rightful place." His instructions she gladly obeyed, if only to escape the scrutiny. With her brother the King exchanged a more thorough set of words, one might even call it half-a-conversation, while she climbed the steps daintily, careful of the tabard's hem.

Pleased to be seated, she greeted the Prince with a soft smile, born of relief and faint fatigue that sleep should have dispelled. Yet there she was, somewhat limp-wristed and tongue-tied, grateful for the measure of distance between herself and the other noble souls milling about. It occurred to her that she ought to at least attempt communications though.

Before her mouth could follow her brain's lead, Rhaegar leaned in, as if to make himself heard over the din, which to be certain was not especially loud. "How fares your ankle?" She'd expected some remark about her sudden shyness, or an inquiry after proper greeting. But her ankle, of all things, she hadn't anticipated discussing.

Lyanna blinked in confusion. "It is well, I daresay." He'd sent the Grand Maester to look after a barely scraped ankle. The man must have been furious. She, on the other hand, hadn't the wherewithal to summon such striking emotions. "I said there was no reason to worry over such a trifle."

"Hardly a trifle," he assured her. Lyanna jumped at the weight of his hand upon her arm. He stroked along the limb in a manner suggesting patience. She teetered between anxiety and delight. "Your well-being is of utmost importance."

Before they could advance any further, her attention was diverted by the clinking of eating utensils, signalling that conversation would have to be placed second. Having never been the sort to look at a feast and be unmoved, she saw to it that her appetite was suffered no blows.

Brandon, who'd been seated on her other side, somehow managed a civil conversation over her head with her betrothed as soon as he saw an opportunity. The trouble with being the younger, and substantially shorter, sister was she oft remained her brother's shadow, particularly when she did not exert herself to outshine him.

If Rhaegar was not entirely enthusiastic in his discourse, he was at the very least appropriately interested in her brother's remarks and she listened with less attention, dividing that between aforementioned conversation and the woman who would be her good-mother.

She smiled when she caught Lyanna's gaze but seemed otherwise contented to not be engaged in conversation of any manner, except for the occasional whisper she shared with her husband. What struck Lyanna, though, was the absolute ease with which she handled every lord or lady come her way. Some had pity for her, others contempt. She remained regal in bearing and seemingly undisturbed. Why, she believed she would have poured her wine over the head of the first person who dared glance at her in such a manner.

"You are rather quiet." She started. Her brother spoke once more. "Lyanna, are you well?"

"Of course I am well," she responded, careful to keep her voice bland. "I am simply taking all of it in." And that was not necessarily untrue. Winterfell, while grand in its own manner, did not boast such liveliness. She needed to find her legs, as it were.

The Prince chuckled, forcing her gaze to him. "You will grow bored with observing soon enough, my lady." He had lived there all his life. Lyanna offered a bland stare by way of reply. But Rhaegar was not bothered. By the looks of him, he took it for interest. "I imagine you need but a few days or so to grow accustomed to the new environment."

"If Your Grace is of the opinion," she allowed. It was not as though he'd ordered her to stop staring or the like. "But I daresay a few days is scant time to learn all I wish to learn." She smiled sweetly, looking from one man to the other. "After all," Lyanna continued, "a lady does have her own duties."

"Understandable," her brother muttered without conviction. He had never had to do sums until nauseated or learn the finer points of housekeeping. He was lord of the keep and his interest lied more with squabbling lords. Equally tedious, she imagined, but in slightly different ways.

Still, she did not choose to enlighten her kin. Instead she turned to Rhaegar. "I did want to ask but it kept slipping my mind, Your Grace, you do not spend much time at court, do you?"

"That, my lady, depends upon what matters need my attention. But no, I have my own seat to care after and with the exception of occasions such as these, I am quite tied to Dragonstone." She'd heard of Dragonstone, of course, and now was her chance to ask all the questions she wished.

"We shan't linger overlong then after the wedding." He gave her a curious look. Lyanna could not help but blush. "My gods; how very forward I must sound." Her brother's huff translated into agreement, at least to her ears. "But I am a woman as all women, and we are best pleased to make a thorough acquaintance with our home."

Brandon's warning glare was observed ad dismissed. Her brother had done little but act the mother hen and she was growing rather tired of whatever misgivings he chose to drag about. Rhaegar, meantime, took her words in with a nod but made no comment upon them. "Be that as it may, our presence may be required at court from time to time, thus I am most certain there will be more than enough days, as it were, to acclimatise."

Taking a moment to think upon it, she did recall that certain occasions called for the royal family to come together. There would also be tourneys which would keep them from home, she imagined; but those she was not quite certain she would be attending. Turning her attention to the food, she enjoyed the sweet pumpkin soup. There were some Northerner dishes to be sampled as well, but having grown all her life with honeyed chicken and sweet corn fritters she could safely say she would not miss their absence this one meal. Brandon, on the other hand, had naught but. And to think he would hold food in distrust.

She made easy conversation with both her betrothed and her brother until the course was cleared away. As custom dictated, once the soups were whisked to the kitchens, many a noble stood to their feet and went about in easy conversation. She elected to keep her seat.

Thus when the Queen exchanged her seat with her son's, she saw little reason to panic. "I trust you are pleased with your accommodations," the woman said, it sounding almost as a command. Lyanna nodded, her lips gently uplifting into a smile.

"I feel very much at home in my chamber," she spoke.

"And the woman I sent you; she will suit, yes?" Lyanna had her own servant girl and she half-suspected the novice was not to act in that capacity, but more or less as a spy.

"She is all that is good and obliging." It was not the girl's fault in any case; she could hardly be expected to refuse the Queen. If Lyanna felt somewhat miffed nonetheless, she hid it the best she could. "But I confess I am somewhat put out at having been so very tired that I could see nothing of this lovely keep."

"There is always the morrow for that," Rhaella assured her. "But it will have to be the glass gardens. In spite of a spot of good weather, we've had no flowers without." In the North it was often the case. And whatever attempt at summer there had been on nature's part, it was a weak thing. Little wonder flowers refused to bloom. Lyanna nodded her head.

"I am most used to glass gardens. I should think it strange to see flowers without, I confess." The queen nodded understandingly. "I understand there are roses from the Reach in the gardens?" Winter roses remained her absolute favourite, but there was something very sweet about summer blooms. And she was interested in knowing how they compared.

"Among others." The rest of the conversation proceeded in similar vein, amiable if not entirely meaningful. Although Lyanna suspected meaningful conversation was restricted, as it was in any other home, to private bedchambers or possibly a solar. She accepted the inane talk, taking in as much as she could about the other important woman in her betrothed's life.

Grandmother had once told her that the fiercest rival to any young wife was the mother, should their relationship begin as a strained one. A man might have respect for his father, even awe should the case call for it. But the mother was something else entirely. In one word she was sacrosanct. That Lyanna could understand and she found herself agreeing with the ornery old woman. She had seen them, after all, in company during the evening.

Not wishing to dwell overlong upon the matter, she shooed away the thought and called a smile to her lips. In time, she hoped to warm to the woman. Might be even become to her as a daughter and accept her as a mother-figure. Until then she planned to exercise judicious care in her actions.

When finally the Queen left her she was called by the King, much to her regret. While the other woman's reserve had been unmistakable, the King was another matter altogether. He did not want to know her. Might be he wanted to know of her. That she could believe. Nevertheless, she slipped from her seat and came to his side, sliding in the Queen's chair.

He looked her up and down. Lyanna thought she saw a spark of something in his gaze, but smothered her worry. Dozens of people surrounded them. He could do but very little harm. "How are you enjoying your evening, lady?" he asked, voice smooth. Lyanna started at the question, not having expected him to sound so very much like his son in that instance.

"It is a very well put together entertainment, Your Majesty; I am enjoying myself immensely," she fibbed with ease. Up close, staring into his eyes, she did think him more akin to his son than ever before. Yes, there was something different about the eyes, about the posture and the general air around him; but in most physical respects the resemblance was striking.

Little wonder he'd been known as somewhat of a skirt-chaser in his youth, she mused, eyeing him with deceptive calm. "My sister tells me you are nearly of age. Tell me truly, girl, are you a day above three-and-ten?" She almost laughed. He looked a decade above the age she knew him to be, if not two.

"Come the new year I shall be but a few turns short of six-and-ten, Your Majesty," she explained. "The resemblance, I am told, is to the Flint kin I have." Grandmother Arya had looked like her and mother, in a sense, but her aunt and her father took after the much larger Starks, reminiscent of old heroes.

"'Tis all good and well to look pretty as a flower," he dismissed her words, apparently worried over some other matter. "A wife needs to produce children. I haven't the faintest what was in my son's head." There he stopped and gazed at her with something very much like suspicion. Lyanna tried her best to remain unmoved. He had naught to see of her, precisely.

"I assure Your Majesty I can handle the rigours of birthing chamber." Brandon would probably expire at her feet if he heard her. "And I should think my mother's record stood as proof of that."

"Your mother is dead," the man reminded her cuttingly.

"Indeed. But not in childbed. All my siblings were born hale and hearty, and all of them live to this day, I am glad to say." He grumbled under his breath, leaving her to make her own conclusions. "In any event, I have no fears on that score."

"How very confident you are." She rather was. And if she'd exaggerated her lack of concern, it was only slightly and for a good cause. Her grandmother Arya had not had the easiest time of it in the birthing chamber, but she had lived and her children as well. Aside from which, she might have the size of a Flint to her, but she certainly had the constitution of an ox, which, her grandmother reminded her constantly, would serve her admirably in that corner of her duties. "Tell you what, girl," he addressed her in an amused drawl, "I shall make you a bet."

"What manner of bet?" Lyanna questioned, not liking the direction they were going in in the least.

"Say I give you a year since the day of your wedding to accomplish a pregnancy. Although I suspect I should be glad if you manage to drag that boy anywhere near a bed at all." Malice glinted in his stare. "A good boy in other respects, as you undoubtedly saw."

She balked. Surely he was not insinuating his son was incapable of intimate congress. "If His Grace has a decided lack of fondness for beds," she began, before she could even stop herself, "I shall endeavour to make use of something more palatable." Brandon oft employed the stables if she was not wrong.

The King burst out into unrestrained laughter, attracting a fair few pairs of eyes. Lyanna knew very well what his meaning had been, or hoped she knew in any event. Better not to ask for further explanation. Not that he might be able to give it, with the way he laughed. But still his words bothered her. The only way to test them was to actively seek out the Prince in such a manner. And she was not about to do so.

"Shall we say I have accepted your wager then?" she asked, after the man calmed down some.

"Let us say so." He chuckled, patting her arm. Lyanna nearly drew away. "Sit here by me then, lady. I can see they are bringing out food again."

Unfortunately for her they were. Seating arrangements had been changed all around them. She gave her brother a pained look when she caught his eyes, but he'd travelled to the lower tables and sat with Lord Arryn's heir. Brandon responded with a worried glance but she simply shook her head at the unspoken question.

Small mercies did not desert Lyanna entirely. The seat on her other side was occupied swiftly by the Queen. She did not know that she might endure Rhaegar's presence gracefully. Not when she was bursting full of questions. No matter how brazen she'd been in her response, she was nowhere near as confident as all that.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she turned towards the Queen once she realised the King had no further wish to speak. Rhaella regarded her with a somewhat worried gaze. "Are you well, child? You look pale."

"That I am. 'Tis only the heat," she gave her excuse quickly. "I was remarking so to His Majesty as well."

But either the Queen knew her husband better or Lyanna was not all that versatile, her little lie was useless. "You should not allow him to frighten you, you know?" she whispered. "My husband has his quirks, you'll see soon enough, and as such his words should be taken with, shall we say, a grain of salt."

She would have been very glad to, except that if he were playing some game, he was being extremely devious. One would not simply lie about such matters for one's enjoyment. "As Your Majesty says." Was he not interested in women? Surely not. He had kissed her. More so, he had been the instigator for the most part. And yet the conversation had been hushed, as though they shared secrets. As though the King had no wish to make the knowledge a common one. She was kore than confused at that point.

"I know 'tis asking of much, given our acquaintance is not longstanding," the Queen continued to whisper, "but you will understand better once a bit of time has passed."

To that she made no response, as indeed, she busied herself with the buttered carrots set before her. Might be she should have followed Catelyn. Too late for regrets. And in any event, the King had not changed her plans in the least with his jabs. All and sundry knew he and his son were oft at odds. Likely as not, this episode had little to do with her, and much to do with the enmity between them. With that in mind she had an easier time of eating her slice of pigeon pie.

Much too soon it came time again for the courses to be cleared away and Lyanna found herself pressed in yet another discussion she had no desire to partake in. Between the monarch and the Dornish Prince, however, she congratulated on choosing the lesser evil, allowing herself to be lead from the table by one Oberyn Martell.

"I see your gallant is absent," he spoke softly, eyeing her with curiosity. "Did your brother wise up in the end and disallow the liaison?" Woe betide her, but did every man need to pepper her with the most odious questions.

"You are much mistaken, if you believe my affections engaged," she answered, "and Brandon had nothing to stop in the first place." He did not look as though he believed her. "Where, pray, are you taking me?"

Having little desire to be caught in any manner of mischief, she scanned her surroundings for sight of her brother and good-sister. Both, however, were caught in conversations. To signal them over was to create a scene. She sighed and turned towards the Dornishman, awaiting his explanation.

"Need I repeat the question?" She drew to a halt, forcing him to stop as well, unless he wished to drag her in his wake. "Where are we going?"

"Just over there," he nodded in the vague direction of a small circle. "Your betrothed wishes you at his side." There was something mocking about the way he said it.

"And you could not say so from the start?" One day she was going to lose her temper. And then the man would be sorry. Lyanna scowled up at him.

"Where's the fun in that?" He chortled.

Lyanna tugged her arm from his and levelled him a withering glare. The Prince was not at all put out. She walked the rest of the way at a safe distance from the man, not entirely surprised when the small crowd parted of its own accord. She walked to Rhaegar's side, noting the slight pause in speech, which pause was used for him to subtly greet her. As though they'd not been together just very recently.

She placed her hand on his arm, instinctively turning her smile upon the man Rhaegar addressed. She recognised a few faces without introduction. Arthur and Ashara, of course, Baelor Hightower and a couple more.

Having finished whatever it was he'd been discussing, Rhaegar looked down at her. "I've been meaning to introduce you, but whenever I looked, you were deep in conversation elsewhere. It seems you are in great demand, my lady."

She could well live with being in lesser demand. "Such compliments will turn my head," she jested lightly, returning her attention to the others. "Well, then."

"I believe some are known to you already, so we shall dispense with their introduction." Arthur made a show of expressing disappointment. "Acting the child won't change my mind, Dayne. Speaking of, this here is Ser Kerr Dayne of High Hermitage." The young man bowed prettily over her hand, a small dimple forming when he lifted his head to smile. Her own smile widened. " Ser Ivo Costayne and his sister, Lady Manild." Ser Costayne followed the example set by Ser Kerr, and his sister curtsied softly, as did Lyanna back at her. And so on, so forth it went, until she had the name of every man and woman. Not that she might recall all of them on the morrow.

By the time she found herself on Ser Ivo's arm, enjoying an amiable chat, Lyanna had quite put out of her mind the frankly dreadful allusion her future good-father saw fit to heap upon her. "I say, ser," she continued upon the heel of a chuckle, "it is all very strange to me but I expect there is nothing for it. My brother assures me the court is not even half as frightening as the first impression of it."

Ser Costayne, she found, was that sort of man one could easily assimilate to an elderly, vaguely paternal figure. In spite of being only several years her betrothed's senior, might be of an age with Ser Baelor, he hadn't the striking appearance of some of his companions and, in truth, seemed content to slip into obscurity. In other words, he presented himself as entirely harmless and she found herself much at ease in his presence.

Might be more than she should have.

"Your brother is a bright young man," the man offered. "But some perils are less apparent than others. And 'tis hardly the same to be courtier or member of the royal family. Even so, there are rewards for one's efforts."

She nodded her head, breaking contact long enough to locate Rhaegar. He was speaking to one of the men she'd met earlier. Her efforts to place a name upon the figure was not rewarded. Ser Ivo, thankfully, aided her. "Jon Connington," he whispered. "Dependable fellow, if a bit strange."

"Strange?" She disengaged her gaze from the two. "In what manner, strange?"

"Keeps himself apart from the rest of us. But as I said, he is a decent fellow and true enough in his devotion." And that seemed the extent to which the man planned to indulge her, Lyanna could tell by his tone of voice.

"I do believe I have monopolised your attention long enough, ser. If you would be so kind, I promised Ser Dayne I should equally favour him before long." Ivo gave her a long look, as though not certain of whom she spoke. It dawned upon her. "Ser Arthur," she rectified. Although by the looks of it she'd be conversing with both sers Dayne and the sister. Just as well. Not that she found herself particularly put out at the notion.

Sly as a fox, the Kingsguard occupied the space at her side before long once she'd approached. "I must warn you, my lady; your presence has stirred the hornets' nest." She had no idea what he spoke of. And she did not plan on asking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

She woke well before the sun. Lyanna muttered a soft oath, not entirely pleased. King's Landing she knew not well enough to ride off on her mare. Besides which, she had no wish to raise suspicions. Might be after she'd managed some sort schedule, she would squeeze in riding. For the reminder, though, she must make do with the little she had. Eyes landing upon the woman sleeping at her side, Lyanna contemplated her latest predicament.

Oberyn's words had not entirely left her, just as the King's hadn't. She had to wonder then if she'd not been saddled with some manner of hound to ensure chastity, as it were. Drat that boy for convincing her to sneak out in the middle of the night.

That was not entirely fair, tough, was it? A man, no matter how uninspiring his appearance would have been taken before the King. Of that Lyanna held little doubt. Even regarding her outcome, which she knew to have been conveniently influenced by the fact she was a woman, she held some doubt. Had it been convenience which guided Rhaegar's decision? The answer would never come to her for, formidable though she might be, she was not Rhaegar's conscience to know such thoughts. And she would not question him about it either. Whatever his reasoning, she was hale and hearty, possibly even alive, because of it.

Shifting until she'd dislodged herself from the other woman's side, Lyanna moved to the edge of the bed and pushed one arm over, searching the ground for the slippers she'd left out. Succeeding, she paused, glancing over her shoulder. The novice slept. She could take a short walk and be back before she'd put anyone to too much trouble. Most of the keep had to be asleep,

Her mind made up, she moved completely away from beneath the heavy furs and put on the slippers. Deciding a kirtle would not do, given the skies did not look particularly forgiving, she drew over herself a fur-lined tabard, somewhat apprehensive at wearing it for such an outing.

Without further delay, she made her way out the door and skipped down the hallway until she'd reached the stairs. Sconces rested along the walls, ensuring she would not fall to an early demise and generally that she mightn't have the opportunity to make a fool of herself by falling down the stairs. For that, she found she had a measure of gratitude. Although why she should, Lyanna hadn't the faintest. The dark did not scare her, after all.

Finally upon the lowest level, she took a few moments to recall which hallway lead to the gardens. The trouble was, even having been told her sense of direction was befuddled. The Red Keep was nowhere near the size of Winterfell. Yet even this relative smallness was of little help in the face of her ignorance. Dare she follow the straight path and make do with whatever waited at the end?

So she would. Lyanna started with a sure step despite the lack of certainty in her head. She was relatively assured of her safety and saw no reason to hesitate. She walked to the end of the hallway only to find another set of stairs. Lyanna followed them to the upper floor and looked about with interest. Having no true knowledge of her present location, she did not break from the great hallway, though one or two paths presented themselves.

In the end she stood before a wide door from behind which she could detect no sound. Lyanna pressed the side of her face to the thick wood and closed her eyes. Still nothing. She bit her lower lip, indecisive to the last. What could it hurt? If it was someone's bedchamber, the door would certainly not be easily opened from without. But the shape more or less indicated something other than sleeping people were contained behind it.

She pressed her weight into the full frame, gripping the handle firmly. A gust of wind howled past her as she stood in the doorway, glancing at the narrower passage set before her. Another door waited a little ways before her. Two doors? She shook her head and trembled ever so slightly, eyes going to the lancet that had not been shuttered. No sense in lingering. Might be there was a warmer chamber ahead.

Such thoughts spurred her on. The second door was equally obliging, opening upon the faintest of creaks, not enough to alert anyone if she did say so herself. And Lyanna found herself looking at rows upon rows of books. The library, of course. She breathed out in relief and entered further in, closing the door behind herself.

The neat queues of books and scrolls were not the only inviting element. A fire must have been burning in whatever hearth there was, for warmth snaked its way around her, pleasantly gliding against her cheeks. Out of all the places she might have landed herself in, this was not the very worst.

Settling upon one of the middle rows, she stepped closer, leaning in to better read the words upon the spines. A few were in High Valyrian, but most had been written in the common tongue as far as she could tell. Lyanna pulled out a slim volume and opened it at random. She read a few lines before placing it back. Books were good and well when one could debate their content, she supposed, but she hadn't the necessary disposition to do so at the moment.

Her feet carried her to another shelf. There she discovered an impressive selection of writings, most of them needful to a maester's craft of healing. Reading any of that would have her falling asleep. Inching slowly backward, she decided it might do her good to search for adequate reading material deeper into the chamber, or might be simply find that fire and sit before it. Both options held equal appeal. Nodding to herself, she followed through with the plan, simple as it was.

A different manner of soft light spilled from somewhere ahead. She saw it reach rosy fingers out from beneath a tall shelf. Lyanna knew the glow encouraged by painted glass. She moved around the scrolls ad tomes, making her way past the various chairs until she came upon a narrow entry. The door was open, as though whoever was within had no notion of the impeding disturbance. An acolyte writing for his master, at a guess, or even the Grand Master. Though she had no desire to face either, she told herself a short peek would not cause trouble.

With as little sound as possible, she pushed within only past her shoulders, eyes unwittingly falling upon the sole occupant of the chamber. No matter how quietly she thought she'd been moving, it was not nearly enough by the looks of it. "Acquainting yourself with your new home?" She flushed a bright red, no more than a squeak making it past her lips. If the prince was bothered by her intrusion he made little enough show of it. The painted glass at his feet confirmed her earlier expectations though.

She had seen him out of his finery in Winterfell, that one morning, Lyanna recalled eyeing as she forced herself to step fully in. "I could not sleep." But even then he'd not been half as relaxed in his attire. What if some other soul came upon him? He was seated on the only chair in the small chamber as far as she could tell. A tome was open upon his lap. Had he an assignation, she doubted it would be held in such a place.

The fire she noted, as her eyes turned to explore the rest of the chamber, was opposite him. She heard the screech of wood upon wood and struggled not to gaze towards the source. "Have you come here for a book?"

She wanted to laugh. But he seemed genuine. Certainly neither of them could have foreseen this. "I merely meant to find the gardens. It seems I've taken a wrong turn though." She faced him then and nearly stumbled backwards once she noted how close he was. "I shan't disturb you any further then."

But she could not leave. Not when he held firmly at her waist. Such a place to grab at too. Her arms would have done just as well. "Who said a thing about being disturbed?" She shrugged. "I wonder, would you be willing to keep me company since neither of us seems capable of finding sleep?"

Lyanna truly should not. What she ought to do was refuse him in the politest of terms and remind him that a few turns longer should see them firmly affixed one to the other. What she did was another matter entirely. Wounding her arms around him in return, she smiled up at him. "It would depend, Your Grace."

"On?" His expression was calm, as though she gazed into the surface of a still lake.

Dare she press him? "On whether Your Grace is amenable." She was not yet so easy in his presence. Better not to take the chance.

By way of answer, he lifted her up and sat them both upon the chair. When she protested at the seating arrangements, he was no less firm in his response. "It is more expedient this way, my lady." His book was upon the ground. Lyanna peered at the small tome.

"You truly should not allow me to disturb you," she managed past her constricting throat. It was quite a different position than any they'd been in before. Reminiscent of her girlhood days, yet she could no more reconcile the easiness of the memory with the excitement of the present than she could admit to her betrothed's face that she was pleased with his choice.

"I might have easily sent you on your way if you were disturbing me," he pointed out nonchalantly, helping her into an easier position. "I never did see much of you after Ser Ivo led you away." That was not entirely true, as she'd left his gaze upon her every now and again throughout the night, thus concluding he kept at least some interest in her whereabouts. Just as she had looked once or twice.

"Ser Ivo, kind man," she noted softly. "I liked his sister well. I thought you'd seen me on Brandon's arm after."

"You've exchanged a great many arms throughout the night." She hummed her agreement. "Shall I ask now which knight you favour, or would you like some more time to decide?" Her eyes grew wide as she stared at him. "They will demand you choose one."

"What would I need a knight for?" She was to have a husband. It was not precisely that she was unaware at court it did happen from time to time that a lady favoured a knight above others, but to the best of her knowledge it was more a game than aught else.

"Amusement," he suggested innocently. Much too innocently.

Lyanna narrowed her eyes into a fierce glare. "Fine one you are, Your Grace, to be making such jests." Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned her face away from him, peering into the flames. Why did the man have to catch her unawares all the time? She felt him shift, his arms tightening around her, presumably to keep her from falling down.

"But might be I should." Well, if he could impugn her with impunity, she might do the same. "Who do you suggest?" See if he liked that half as well. Dreadful man, teasing her as though he'd been born to it. She any number of brothers for that. "Ser Arthur, might be?"

Fingers splayed against the curve of her waist. "His duties lie elsewhere."

"I know, Ser Kerr then. He looks a reliable sort." She was still gazing at the heap of blazing logs. "Or might be Ser Ivo. I did say I enjoyed his company after all."

"You said you liked his sister." Finally, they were getting somewhere. "And that he was a kind man."

"I like kind men." Lyanna turned to lock stares with him. "Besides, Your Grace, it would be pointless to choose any man. You said we shall be departing soon after we are wed."

"And so we shall." It occurred to her that they were utterly alone in a deserted chamber. And yet he made no move to do anything other than hold her. The King's words returned to taunt her. Lyanna moved until she could comfortably settle her head against his shoulder, hiding away her face, lest he read the worry written so very plainly there. If only there were some way to ask such a question. For all she knew the man had been in his cups and looking to have a laugh. "My lady. Lyanna."

She made a soft sound, indicated she'd heard him. "Are you planning on falling asleep on me?" he questioned, the fingers at her waist digging into her side through the layers of cloth.

"No. I was merely thinking, Your Grace." He'd called her by name, she realised belatedly. Her voice was only slightly muffled.

"About?" His other hand draped across her lap, fingers curling around the bend of her knee. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest and he, no doubt felt as much from her. If she were being entirely honest she did not want to move. She did not even wish to answer. It was enough to be held so close. It had been so very long since someone had truly held her.

One of her slippers dislodged from its position, landing upon the ground. The smacking sound startled her. She raised her head in dismay. "Pray release me, Your Grace. I've a slipper to recover." No small thing was her wonder when instead of complying he reached for her other shoe and filched it right off her foot. It dropped to the ground as well.

"Tell you what, I will return both your slippers if you answer my question." Was he daring her to defy him?

She shook her head, just to see what he would do. A small shriek left her lips when her ribbon was tugged free, allowing the loose braid to break apart. "I like it better unbound." What a thing to say. Lyanna catalogued that bit of knowledge, locking it away before she brought a hand to her loosened braid to keep it from fully unravelling.

"I take it you don't mean to tell me." She raised one eyebrow at him, hoping to convey the exactly perfect answer. "To be sure, I could wait until after you have sworn to obey me to find out."

"It is no good, Your Grace; I will simply hold my fingers crossed for that part." By the look on his face he found the notion as ridiculous as she did. "In any event, you once told me you have no need of my ribbons. In light of that, pray return the one you've taken."

"And the slippers?" He was goading her.

"And the slippers," she agreed. Reaching out for the ribbon did not help the matter. He was simply in possession of a far wider range than she.

"I could just keep you here until you confess," he mused, apparently undisturbed by the first rays of the sun creeping through the lancet. The warm light softened his features.

"And have someone walk in on us? I think not." Surely he would not expose either of them to such talk. "It would be the easiest thing to return my possessions." He gave her a small smile. "Very well, Your Grace, if you must know, I was considering the previous lesson you gave me." She hoped the fib worked.

"Were you now?" Interest played upon his features unrestrained. "We never did manage to reconvene for practice." He was not wrong. It had simply never felt like a good time. Without further ado, her betrothed pressed his lips to hers in a sweet kiss. He pulled back slightly before lifting her up. She was returned to the seat without him, her ribbon laid across her lap.

The first contact made her jump. She looked down at him, somewhat dazed, not because of the kiss. He was kneeling before her, one of her slippers held in proud display. He was the very devil; capable of twisted her with such ease. It was not at all fair. One day, she'd return the favour and leave him speechless. "I suppose I shall be keeping a close eye on you during the wedding ceremony," he spoke, fitting the show on. Her other foot was still bare.

It was the one she'd injured and he either recalled as much, or saw the wound as his fingers wrapped around her ankle. Lyanna doubted she would ever have the courage to take her stockings off again. "As Your Grace pleases. It does not change my intention."

"Nor should it. If one is always satisfied there isn't much of a challenge to it, is there?" She gaped at him. The soothing pat to her knee was not helping matters. "I could grow used to this." Was he speaking to her?

Lips closing of their own accord, she silently urged him to give her other shoe back. "Grow used to what?" she gritted out meantime, the hotness of her cheeks much too apparent in her mind. Just once she wished the men around her did not take such pleasure in confounding her.

"This." He finally returned her slipper before sitting up and pressing a chaste peck to her forehead.

Lyanna pursed her lips and grabbed onto his shoulders. She was going to be his wife. "I should like a proper greeting, if you please."

"You are a shameless little thing, aren't you?" he chuckled. At least one of them found the situation amusing.

"I see no reason to be ashamed." She was not, after all, kissing a stranger whom she did not plan to see again.

Apparently in a mood to placate her, he hoisted her up to her feet and awarded her another kiss, for her shamelessness as he called it. "No reason at all," he murmured as they drew apart.

The King had lied. She was certain of it.

Lyanna grinned up at him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pop Quiz: What flames the king's doubt regarding his son's...interest?  
> Is it...  
> a) the books  
> b) the scrolls  
> c) Rhaegar  
> d) all of the above  
> 


	9. Scene IV (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...new chapter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"If you keep tugging on that collar you'll pull the fur right off," Catelyn warned, a mischievous smile playing upon her lips. Her buoyant mood found explanation in the wan, thin shafts of light cleaving through fat, rain-heavy clouds. The play of colours, subtle shades of grey entwined with flickers of gold, branded the day as pleasant a thing as they would have for the foreseeable future. Winter was swift returning.

"I doubt it," Lyanna answered, taking a moment to consult her looking glass as to the appropriateness of her attire choice. Nevertheless, her fingers stroked through the soft fur, fingertips trailing along the seam.

"Best you don't still. It's too pretty a garment to be ruined." Privately, Lyanna had to agree. Outwardly she settled for a brief smile. "I take it you are prepared to join the Queen then."

"As prepared as I shall ever be," she allowed. "Is it strange that I am mildly apprehensive?" Rhaella Targaryen was not an intimidating woman. If anything, her husband was the one Lyanna desired to run away from screaming. That she was to spend a few hours with her should not have posed a problem.

"Of course not," chuckled her good-sister, linking their arms together. "The woman is to be your good-mother. I should be anxious myself in such circumstances. Granted, you may feel a tad silly after all this is past, but do not be too hard on yourself. A mother's influence can be the making of a wonderful union."

Had she a mother of her own, she could might be divine some manner of impressing the Queen. As it was, Lyanna had to make do with not embarrassing herself. "I wish you'd been invited along."

"I will join you later. Having had my fill of roses, I cannot complain." A wise move, for she feared lamentations would not be regarded with much interest. "Have you everything you require?"

"I do think so." Except courage, apparently. It was not as though she was wedding the woman, Lyanna told herself, determined to push away her worries for the time being. Placing a hand over her heart, she willed the organ to slow its pace and allow her to relax. "Might be I shall have a bit of wine," she muttered to herself, stepping around Catelyn whose amusement at the situation though not visible remained strangely palpable, as though she could not quite help herself. Then again, Catelyn was a wedded woman and she needn't worry as to what the opinion of her husband's kin was.

Pouring some Arbour wine for herself, she silently asked Catelyn where she wished some as well. Her good-sister declaimed in equally mute manner and contented herself with staring out the lancet at the softly illuminated skies. Busying herself with her wine, Lyanna contemplated the best way to approach the issue of Coryna. The Queen had expressly mentioned she'd selected the girl; her purpose, however, remained as of yet unknown.

A body servant she already had in her Northerner retainer. Tansy was as faithful a helper as she could ever wish for and she hadn't any desire to see her returned to Winterfell. She might, however, in due time, she realised after brief consideration. Tansy was a lively girl, but she needed her twin as much as her twin needed her. They were used to working together, sharing all manner of comforts, Lyanna assumed. Would it be unbearably cruel to indefinitely separate them? Should she ask the Queen to find suitable replacement?

Coryna was a novice, after all. She would don her veil before long and seek a position suitable to her. And yet the Queen kept to septas and a few ladies-in-waiting. She had to admit that confused her to no end. Alas, no explanation would come if she whiled the rest of the morning away in her bedchamber.

A slow tap on the door intruded into the almost reverent silence. "Come in," she answered whoever stood on the other side. Her invitation made, Lyanna put away the wine and straightened her skirts, eyeing the thick dark material for any speck which might dent its perfection. Satisfied when her latest analysis found no such detrimental occurrence upon the cloth she looked up, finally, to see her newest companion making her bows.

"Pray, forgive the interruption," the novice spoke, her voice somewhat grave. "I have been informed her Her Majesty has finished breaking her fast."

Tansy stepped out of the small, side-chamber, arms laden with a cloak. "Perfect timing, Tansy. Her Majesty is expecting us."

The young woman chuckled and pinned the cloak in place with a silver brooch. "A good thing m'lady rose with the dawn. We shan't be in a hurry this time around."

Blushing rosy at the memory of precisely what she'd been doing during the early hours, she cleared her throat in hopes of warding off anymore comments. If anyone caught on to what her aim was, no one said a thing. Which was just as well, as she had little enough with which to defend her goal. And how awkward it should be to explain that she had no intention of sharing any manner of intimate information with any of them. At least, not until her position was as secure as could be.

"We may depart," she said when Tansy drew back. "I will see you later, good-sister," Lyanna addressed Catelyn who waved her on her way. Having little to do but follow Coryna into the hall, she turned around and stepped gingerly over the rugs, careful not to drag her feet. Too much pressure could flatten the fibres beyond repair.

Surprisingly enough, as she walked, her calm returned ever so slowly. She was going to make it, Lyanna assured herself, offering her companion a cheery little smile when they reached the stairs. She might as well try to learn the way to the gardens while she was at it, lest she end up in less pleasant company the next time she decided to have herself a stroll.

Manild Costayne, who had been the Queen's companion some years, greeted Lyanna as she entered the hall, proceeding to abandon the petite blonde she had been conversing with. "My lady, we were wondering if you would be up and about at such an early hour."

Laughing softly, she allowed the woman to buss both her cheeks, returning the warm gesture. "'Tis better to be prepared rather than not." Manild nodded her head and led her to the other lady who watched them with poorly disguised interest.

"Allow me to make Joyeuse Hart known to you," Manild said as Lyanna waited for the blonde to offer her respects. She returned the greeting received. "Joyeuse, I am certain the name of our lady, Lyanna, is familiar to you."

"I did not see you at the King's table," she noted after a moment had passed.

"Indeed, my lady, I was rather faint and Her Majesty allowed me my rest." It could not be an easy thing working to entertain another. Lyanna nodded, offering a soft wish of health. Lady Joyeuse brightened at the consideration she was afforded and nodded her head with pretty expressions of gratitude upon her lips.

"'Twas the weather, I daresay," opinionated Manild. "Naturally you would feel the effects of its changing. Come now, pet; pay no mind to it for it shall pass soon enough."

For all intents and purposes, the two women seemed as close as sisters. Lyanna looked from one to the other, wondering what she might contribute to the discussion. The unfortunate thing was that while she'd heard of people affected by the weather's changing whims, she had never paid the subject much mind, uncertain it should ever come in handy. Much too late for regrets, though. She squared her shoulders.

"Her Majesty seems a very kind woman to my mind." Compliments were bound to gain her friends, were they not?

"Most certainly," Joyeuse agreed verbally while Manild nodded empathically. "I don't doubt you've heard all manner of rumours regarding our mistress, but those are half-truths at best and at worst every word is fabrication. She is the gentlest soul."

"Provided one has a care to return her goodness," Manild added. "But that is as it should be. Some folk think kindness is reason to take advantage of people. As far as I can see, those are the ones that should strike fear in their brethren's hearts."

"Evil is as evil does," Lyanna spoke, keeping her voice mild. She wished there was a way of knowing whether whichever person she glanced at was friend or foe, but since that could not be had, she had little of import to say.

"Too true." Manild shook out her skirts with an annoyed little hiss once she glanced down. "That girl, Heather, she might have paid some attention to how she pressed the skirts."

"They look well enough to me," Joyeuse said. "Here, let me help you." The crinkled were barely observable. Lyanna joined in, smoothing the material down with nary a word. It occurred to her that a lady-in-waiting did not, might be, have as much time to worry about her own appearance as she would have liked. And even were the Queen so inclined to allow it, one would have to be most careful not to outshine their mistress.

Her musings were interrupted by Manild expressing her gratitude. "Her Majesty is truly thankful that you have agreed to the outing as well, my lady," she continued. "It is ever so rarely that she has the opportunity to pay visits as she would these days."

"I daresay being the King's wife comes with no easy tasks attached," she found herself saying, knowing all too well that even if she were to put together all tasks of a keep's mistress in a moon turn she would still not be stopped from a bit of traveling. As unpleasant as the King was could she truly suppose him that much of a monster that he would interdict his lady wife such small comforts? No matter, one way or another, she would find out.

Before any of the two ladies-in-waiting could respond, yet another figure stepped within the hall, the considerable girth carried with more grace than Lyanna supposed any pregnant woman had the right to. Following Elia Martell came the second Dornishwoman Lyanna had made the acquaintance of. Ashara Dayne would put any bloom to shame with her loveliness. One had to wonder why the Prince did not court her affection. Batting the thought away, Lyanna had a warm smile and a pleasant greeting for both newcomers.

"Lady Lyanna, how well you look," Elia spoke, grabbing her by the arm, as if to beg for aid. She rested for a few moments before speaking. "Ashara and I were hoping you would not take exception to our presence."

"That I would not." She had been frightened for nothing, With this many people about the Queen would have little time to interrogate her. "Whatever gave you such a notion?"

"My friend fears you will not wish to be seen upon the arm of a, how did you put it Elia, a belly the size of a barn." Ashara stepped to Elia's other side. "Her lord husband is driving her mad with his worrying. We were hoping a bit of distance would aid both of them."

"A wise decision." Lyanna turned towards the source of the voice in time to see the Queen arriving in the company of her septas. The lot of them curtsied, excepting Elia who simply nodded her head. "You have the look of your mother about you," Rhaella said to the Dornishwoman, may the Mother grant her mercy."

"Your Majesty is very kind," Elia answered, a smile upon her lips.

"Her Majesty and the late Princess of Dorne were close at one time," Manild whispered in her ear. Lyanna nodded her understanding. "Lady Joanna, as well. There was Jeyne Vance at some point as well. But two of these ladies are buried and the third wedded and left court long past."

To think one was alone in the world, that all trusted companions were gone. It was the tale of many a wandering hero, left without lords to serve, friends to honour and glory to find. In the worst of her melancholy moments, never did she think herself alone. She had Brandon and Ned and Ben. She was never truly alone. But if her suspicions were true, if the Queen could not depend on her husband, nor on her son, who appeared to have his own troubles, then who did she have?

But the Queen had moved on, heading towards Lyanna. She imparted upon her the plans she'd made. While most of it had already been explained to her, she did not protest to a second account, nodding in agreement. "We might as well take advantage of the agreeable weather and view the gardens at leisure before we descend upon Baelor's Sept." They began ambling slowly.

And descend they would. Lyanna did not keep with the new gods. The Faith of the Seven was and forever would be the domain of a naive, even if well-meaning, flock of sheep destined to delude themselves into a false sense of security. As for her own gods, if they turned their back on her with no remorse, she saw little reason to honour their bond. A covenant was built on faith, faith which need to be strengthened by acts on both sides. But that, she considered with a small sigh, was a matter best not delved into in the middle of a very pleasant morning.

With that in mind, Lyanna turned her attention back to the Queen. "If you are not too tired after, we might take this opportunity to distribute alms. There will be much occasion for your to do so on your own in the future, but I would, if you do not mind, take the time to help you accustom."

Distributing alms was not a strenuous task in and of its own. And Lyanna suspected she could well apply her knowledge learned from acting her brother's steward for a number of years. Why, alms required lists and prices and so on so forth. What concerned her was that at this moment she was in the dark as to what manner of alms they would be giving away.

"Begging Your Majesty's pardon, but I would be remiss if I did not ask what manner of alms we shall distribute." The Queen gave her an approving look.

"The lists have already been written for this outing, but the next one I've no doubt you will compose yourself. Today we feed the hungry." In as densely populated a town as King's Landing, she held little doubt there would be many mouths to feed. Particularly given winter was coming and crops were no longer readily available.

"Did you often taken on the task of dispensing alms when in your brother's keep?"

"As often as it was required of me. The Winter Town near Winterfell fills with the coming of winter. Naturally, at such times the need of the people grows." The woman nodded her head. During their conversation they had advanced without.

Lyanna looked about, eyeing a few low shrubs peppered with small white flowers. She imagined their fragrance would be charming, except that she could not in good conscience break away from the Queen. Thus she admired the specimens from a safe distance. A few rose bushes peeked shyly from behind, the purple of the flowers a pleasant contrast to the earlier white while not overwhelming. "I imagine those are the roses from the Reach."

"Precisely. That particular specimen was a gift from Lady Alerie. She is Lord Mace Tyrell's wife."

"Was she at Harrenhal?" She had seen the Tyrell bannermen, of course, but she'd not seen a knight of that house as far as she could recall.

"The good lady is in a delicate condition; traveling shan't agree with her for some time."

"I wish her well of it then."

"Aye; a good wife. She gave her lord two sons. If she should gain a daughter, I do not doubt she will be glad to have something for herself." The Queen laughed softly. "But then, I suppose it is a matter of balancing. Who is to say a boy will not belong to his mother."

"Might be with two sons, her lord will be glad that his lady wife shows interest in the third son." Fathers, while perfectly capable of providing for the child when he or she was older, had a difficult time of it. Yet she perceived the Queen spoke not of Lady Alerie, but of another mother altogether.

"Men are strange that way," Rhaella confided, bending her head conspiratorially, "even the best of them will suffer this malady. They want sons, and as many of them as can be had. Until they have daughters, that is, and fall prey to another manner of malady altogether."

"Whereas a woman will be contended with simply holding a babe," Lyanna guessed. "That is just as well, for I suppose, otherwise, the effort would prove too great a burden." She had not considered the bearing of children with great care, nor did she wish to consider the matter too closely at present. Her gaze strayed to a hazel tree. The limbs were strong and sturdy; as she imagined a woman have to be, strong and sturdy, to face all tasks set before her, in a different manner from men.

"In a manner of speaking," her collocutor answered, steering her slightly to the side. "But let us not attempt running before we have learned to walk."

They were nearing the gates. Lyanna glanced at the wide doors for a few moments before returning her attention to the flowers. As her nearly good-mother had said, best not to run before knowing how to walk. She might land on her face otherwise. And that, Lyanna did not relish.

Fortunately for her, any running would have to wait, as a wheelhouse waited for them without the gates. Somewhat astonished to see two Kingsguards waiting for them as well, Lyanna tried to place the two men. One employed a tower brooch to hold his cloak pinned. The flames crowning the tower marked him beyond the shadow of the doubt a Hightower. His companion was in possession of a plowman to fasten his cloak. A Darry, by any other name. She took a moment to admire the man, for in spite of his age, and he must have been twice as old as her, he offered a most pleasant view.

Introductions, if any were to be made, would have to wait, for the two men appeared to have one single task for the day, and that was to be mute guards. The Hightower knight handed the Queen in, then Lyanna. She accepted his aid with a low murmur of gratitude and dared not hold his stare for too long. The rest of the womenfolk followed slowly, though she perceived it was on account of Elia and her burden.

Was it wise to allow a woman so near her to gallivant freely? Most females would have been confined to a comfortable bed long past. Her Ser Baelor was a most liberal fellow, Lyanna imagined, to acquiesce to his lady's wishes to remain unfettered, although divining the sense in such a move remained beyond her grasp.

Before long, however, the wheelhouse filled with the murmur of conversation. Settled between the Queen and Lady Joyeuse, Lyanna took a few moments to determine how much her intervention would be needed. Happily, she had her answer, as Lady Ashara steered the conversation towards the salient, but extremely controversial topic of the High Septon's detractors.

"My lady you cannot be expected to hold such information," she assured Lyanna with a benevolent smile, "but if we do not have enough care to warn you, no one else shall." The Queen allowed such talk, and even relished the conversation; or so Lyanna was given to understand at the beatific visage of the woman and her nod of permission. "Keep in mind that his own brethren have taken him in contempt. No small feat."

"Lady Ashara, I beg you would not be so cavalier. The man still has his holy order, regardless of whether we hold him in any regard," Manild attempted to soften the weight of the other's blow.

"Come Manild, he is a rat and you well know it. Why just last turn I heard he foisted the coin gathered so diligently by the good people of the land to garb himself in fine silks," Joyeuse intervened.

"I believe the general consensus is that one should mind what the septon says, not what he does," chuckled Elia, picking at the lint upon her skirts. "Nevertheless, Septon Russell assures me the Most Devout are unhappy with our High Septon's greed. For all their small foibles, none have, as of yet, reached for the alms with so much relish as does this one."

"He is a Bywater," the Queen joined in, "their greed is a secret to no one. Of course, we shall make no mention of it. Just as we will not speak of what Septa Myrtle assures me is a very well-planned action against the man."

They were openly discussing a plot. For a few moments Lyanna did not know what to make of it. For the Queen hesitated, she saw, to either condemn or commend the scheme. "Surely a mere warning will not do," Joyeuse opinionated, moving her hand to smooth a path down her skirts. "He bears himself about in sliver accented cloth, while the poor beg food on the steps of the sept."

"Whatever they mean to do it will be too good for him," Ashara Dayne agreed. "At least you, my lady," she turned to Lyanna once more, "are spared such troubles, for the North keeps the old faith." A question lingered somewhere in there.

"While it was never much commented upon, my lord father, when he lived, had hopes of alliances with Southron houses for all his children. I was raised in the faith of the old gods, it is true, but our maester did not neglect the Seven in the least."

"I took all my lessons with my septa, as I imagine the majority of us have" Elia Martell confided. "Are maester stricter, do you think, my lady Lyanna?"

"I imagine so; but I confess I am ignorant in that regard, might be if I could sit in on a lesson." She shrugged. It did not escape her notice that they'd sailed from one subject to another. Apparently. The High Septon was not at all the manner of subject to hold their attention for long. Lyanna ought to ask her brother whether she should involve herself in the matter. Brandon had to know something.

"So you had a lad's education, did you?" Manild tittered softly. "I have to say your grace is most uncommon."

She laughed along, but shook her head in reply. "My grandmother supplemented the maetser's lesson in all areas where necessary."

"Hear that, Joyeuse?" Manild demanded of her companion. "I daresay we can acknowledge the notion sits better with you now." By way of explanation she added, "My friend feared her sister would turn out too much in the manner of a boy if the maester handled her education."

"She's already quite the mouth on her. Mother despairs of ever finding a man desperate enough to wed her." Though the words were harsh, Lyanna detected the exasperated affection of siblings underlying the description.

"There is always Lord Walder Frey; he requires a new wife each year." They laughed. Of course no one contemplated saddling a poor maiden with the old man, not when her sister was well-connected at court. There would be suitors at some point.

"Pray, let us not speak of the accursed creature. I break out in cold sweat at the mere mention of his name."

"As you should," laughed Ashara. "He's a hundred if he's a day and has had more wives than any decent man ought to. Not to mention the lemans."

"Now this, I daresay, is a subject no one shall thank you for introducing," Elia observed to her friend's consternation. "Although us married women, and those soon to be wedded, might wish to consider the matter."

"Best you do not," the Queen advised. "Men," she faltered, "some men will keep lemans. 'Tis inevitable. But take it, my dearlings, from a woman who has been married long enough to know the way of it; a smart wife shall never question her husband upon such matters."

"So he might better run roughshod over her sensibilities?" baited the eldest of them.

"Now, now," tsked the Queen, "you are barely settled as wife and have already begun worrying. Nay; you should not provoke the man for the simple reason that if he should give you respect and behave towards you with the kindness a man reserves for his bride, than you need naught else."

Lyanna failed to produce any contemplative sound as the woman around her did. She had not considered mistresses with any great amount of care either. While she certainly knew Lord Dustin's younger daughter had been her brother's leman by a manner of speaking, theirs had never been a close relationship. Barbrey was cold and haughty, might be sensing Lyanna's reluctance to befriend her. In turn, she did her very best to see little of the woman. But then Barbrey was Brandon's lover not her own husband's.

"I shall defer to your superior knowledge," she heard the Dornishwoman saying. "But I maintain that a woman ought to know where she stands with her husband."

Wondering whether she should voice her own understanding, Lyanna remained in that strange position for a while longer, clasping her hands together upon her lap for lack of a batter response. The two women willing to debate the subject were wedded, and had as different a manner of marriage as could possibly be from one another. Who was to say that both were not correct? A small sigh left her lips. Would that they reached Baelor's Sept and have done with this nonsense. Lemans and lovers were certainly no proper concern. Why, she almost preferred the open talk of plots to such displays.

To her relief, her wish was granted as the wheelhouse came to a halt and the panel was pulled back from the small latticed window. Ser Hightower announced in a strong, steady voice that they had reached their destination. As before, he was the one to help them without as soon as the door was opened. Lyanna did not know what else to do in his presence but not. He was not quite as tall as Rhaegar and rather bulky. But there was a fierceness to him she'd yet to see in other men. Best not to tread on his toes, she decided, parting with him swiftly.

The Darry knight seemed much kinder in contrast. Lyanna cleaved to him, stepping neatly towards the other man, whose less intimidating stare put her more at ease. If he took notice of her, he gave little sign of it. She almost wished for Ser Arthur or Jaime Lannister. Alas, she would need to grow accustomed to all members of the Kingsguard. She had time; for that she must be grateful.

Whatever other considerations she had in mind, Lyanna locked them away as her arm was swiftly taken by the Queen who insisted one of the men ought to help the sole pregnant female. "I shan't have your kin coming down upon me for endangering his babe," Rhaella insisted to Gerold.

Of course he would be related to Ser Baelor. Why had Lyanna not thought about it? But what a marked difference between them. No matter, she would soon pout away her apprehension, she promised herself as the others fell into step. Manild and Joyeuse were whispering amongst themselves. Elia had her escort and Ser Darry gallantly offered to play partner to Ashara Dayne whose smile rivalled the sun.

"I have noticed you watch Ser Arthur's sister with much attention," Rhaella told her, her manner easy. "What is the reason behind it?"

Seeing no reason to fabricate an explanation, Lyanna fell back upon the truth. "One of my brothers has taken a liking to her. I am merely assuring myself his interest is not misplaced." She liked Ashara Dayne as a friend, but she was not quite so certain she wished her for Ned's wife. "I trust Your Majesty shall not judge me too harshly for it."

"Far be it from me when I am doing the same. Should I not be a mealy-mouthed shrew otherwise?" She laughed, presumably at the face Lyanna pulled. "Look your fill; 'tis best to know the manner of cloth you plan to buy. Although, your brother should be the one doing the perusing."

"I am certain he shall when the time is right." Ned had yet to gain his knightship. Once Lord Arryn thought him prepared; well, that was another story altogether. He might take a wife then, free of encumberments.

"Does neither of your unwedded brothers consider keeping himself for the Kingsguard? No doubt you would rest easier knowing your kin so close at hand." They'd nearly reached the top of the stairs.

"Having not been given to understand they would be either for it or against the notion, Your Majesty, I dare not speak for Ned and Ben." Which was the truth, after all, but Lyanna much doubted either one of her brothers would embrace the duty willingly. Nay, bets to put the notion to Brandon and have him dismiss it.

"A wise sister, you are." She wondered whether that meant she had pleased the woman. Finally they were at the topmost step, the open doors inviting them within.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I have a real chance of passing Bechdel test with this chapter. We didn't talk about only men, remember. Because God forbid women be concerned for the men in their lives and such and try to gain other perspectives by addressing their concerns to other woman with whom they are close. As we all know, that's a ridiculous notion....
> 
> But serious talk, I have given only Lyanna P.O.V.s up until now. I'm wondering, is the lack of other povs growing tedious? I sort of dig this concealing other people's thoughts because this way the reader sort of depends on Lyanna and is about as uncertain as her about stuff. But I was wondering what your opinion was.
> 
> Let me know.


	10. Act III

**ACT III.**

_Thou that dwellest in the gardens, the companions hearken to thy voice: cause me to hear it._

 

 

 

 

 

 

Discontentment preyed upon his mind. Rhaegar twirled the spindly stem of his quill between thumb and forefinger restlessly. "Are you certain?" The parchment resting upon the table absorbed a few ink droplets. He was wasting good paper.

Richard Lonmouth shrugged, his expression indicating he just as much at a loss. "To the best of my knowledge, there is little there. The lady has led a fairly seclude life since the death of her parents. She learned in the care of her maternal grandmother until the woman's death then her care was taken up by Lady Marna. Her brother's concern was not truly focused upon her."

If Brandon Stark had no knowledge of any misdeed, dare he hope the truth was close to his interpretation of matters? "I doubt 'tis all so easy." Life ever so rarely gave him the opportunity to enjoy the many privileges of his position. He'd wondered, of course, at her openness. It could be attributed to either innocence or knowledge and thus far he'd only managed to confuse himself further by his inquiries. At best, he could say he had his doubts.

"Why? What precisely are you looking for?" Richard shifted in his seat. "I do not understand. I have met her and found so very little to arouse suspicions. Unless, of course, you've knowledge beyond mine." Rhaegar took a moment to consider the words.

"I fear I am in a like position to yours. Richard, why would a woman risk her life as she has in protecting another?" He hoped and hoped the answer he received would sway him one way or another. "Speak freely."

"You are asking whether she is in love with another? I do not believe that matters. Do not take it amiss, Your Grace, but she will be your wife and whatever prior engagements her heart has entered, I do not believe her family would allow any of it to carry on. Might be what you saw was simply a last act of kindness." Lonmouth placed something upon his desk. "Arthur was wondering if you would wish this back."

Rhaegar reached out for the length of cloth. "He won this fairly." That did not answer the question. Did he wish to have the ribbon for himself? If he were entirely honest, the answer would have to be an affirmative one. But then he was not his father; he allowed that certain relationships could engender affection without necessarily spelling trouble. "Let him have it back." His fingers unclenched, releasing the ribbon.

"I think your worry is for naught." He had told the man to speak freely. "But if you wish to be certain, then there is a way. It would give you the answer you are searching for." A final solution, as it were.

"I could not possibly." The inherent insult if found out might be enough to smother any warm feelings slowly blooming. "I want to trust her." In truth, he was tired of being suspicious at every step. There had to be something he could trust.

"Then trust her; as far as I can see, there is your only real choice here, is it not? Irrespective of whether her heart is part of whatever deal you've made with her brother, the North is needed for something other than such a personal matter. You truly shouldn't allow yourself to travel those dark paths."

He chuckled. "I do believe you are the wiser of us. I wish I could let it go so easily." He pressed the tip of his quill upon the parchment, ink bleeding into the pristine white. The stain spread. It was not precisely that the thought bothered him. He'd never been overly attached to such notions as the ones so oft found between the pages of the Seven-Pointed Star. They had merit, to be certain, yet the strictness did not allow for the more sophisticates situations one found oneself in every now and again. Yet he was not so dull as to not realise the inherent danger those notions warned about. His duty, irrespective of his own convictions was to his own house.

"We can keep an eye on her if that is what you wish." Rhaegar nodded. "My friend, this is why you should not listen to gossip; it cannot lead you down a straight road." Richard rose with a light chuckle, apparently more than pleased with himself. Rhaegar left him be. "I shall take my leave now, Your Grace. Unlike you, I am yet searching."

"Best of luck with your endeavour then." Something told him that particular search would not be a long one. The King's court boasted a large selection of marriageable ladies, all of whom had been sent by one family member or another to further the position of their house. It stood to reason that being fairly active as far as court matters went, Lonmouth would sooner rather than later find his allies.

For himself, Rhaegar stood as well, moving towards the lancet. A light fog rolled over the gardens so very visible from his vantage point. While his sight might have been slightly bothered, he could still make out movement. Not even such a day would put an end to the parade of fine skirts and capes. He smiled to himself and gazed a few moment longer upon the scene. If only all days were as shockingly barren of troubles.

Brandon had assured him the North would stand by him should he wed Lyanna. The North was what he needed most at the moment. With the rift between his father and Lord Lannister, he could surely isolate the man long enough to implement his plan. His father's grovelling lickspittles were not quite as blind as he had hoped. If he was to make his move, he ought to do it fast, preferably without his poor bride in attendance. The King, he was certain, knew as much, which accounted for the delayed nuptials.

There was always the possibility of wedding her before a septon and witnesses. Unlike Jenny of Oldstones, Lady Lyanna had more than enough blue blood in her veins to satisfy the royal line a thousand times over. Yet such an act might strengthen his father's position. The trouble was Rhaegar had no intention of allowing the man even the smallest of victories. He would have to wait, and make the best of his chances.

The door opened with a sharp sound, his attention snapping to whoever it was that entered. Rhaegar experienced a moment of confusion at seeing Jon Connington with a telling expression upon his face. What could that be about?

"Jon." His greeting, flat thought it might have been, elicited a nod from the other man. "I take it you've something to tell me."

"About your request," Jon began, closing the door in his wake, "I found nothing of interest." If there had been something, Rhaegar would trust this man to find it. He made a soft sound, indicating his understanding. But Jon Connington did not bow out of the chamber. Instead he spoke once more. "There are ways, Your Grace, of knowing whether there is such peril."

"What are you suggesting?" Best of have all his options laid out before him. At times choices seemed that much easier to make when they were presented by a clear mind. Or rather, as clear as one only half-involved could be.

"You must be aware that the masters have ways."

"I should poison my intended?" On the scale of egregious things he had considered during his lifetime, inducing such an affliction upon a woman was certainly somewhere on the lower rungs. "The inherent danger of such a scheme does not inspire comfort."

"If it should be found out." True enough. If Lady Lyanna had no idea, naturally she could not be expected to name the origin of her complaint. Rhaegar drummed his fingers against the stone, wondering at a couple that had stopped in the middle of the road. They were deep in conversation, the fog swirling around them, yet nowhere hear thick enough to mask them.

"I shall think upon it." He could simply leave it be. Give it a turn or two. That should be long enough considering the length of their betrothal. "Jon, there is a message I wish sent to Lord Whent. Might be you could aid with that."

"As Your Grace wishes."

Returning to the table, Rhaegar picked up a sealed parchment. He placed it into his friend's hands. "It is imperative that it not fall into anyone's hands. I need Whent with me in this." Thankfully, so far, his father seemed to be content allowing matters to go on as they were. If he managed to push the wedding forth, and he had some hope he would, he simply wished the other to be prepared.

Having taken the missive, Jon departed with nary a word. His suggestion, however, stayed with Rhaegar for a while longer. Much as he found the practice distasteful, if his suspicions were founded then time was not on his side in that. A decision had to be made.

Such a decision though would not be made within the solar. Rhaegar took his leave of stacks of unwritten letters and minor troubles plaguing the far-off Dragonstone and its denizens, he found himself in the gardens he had so recently been admiring. He was not alone. Knights and ladies dotted the landscape, most of them walking two by two.

To his surprise, he saw his soon to be good-sister. She was on the arm of the ever-charming Ashara Dayne. Both of them approached him, one visibly more relaxed than the other. Then again, Ashara had never truly bothered with the stricter rules. She beamed at him, her height putting her at an advantage even alongside the fairly tall Catelyn Tully.

"Your Grace, how fortuitous to meet you here." Much like her brother, the woman did not hesitate a moment before making her wishes clear. "I was looking for my brother." More than likely in a bid to pester him about some issue or another.

"And yet he evades you, my lady" he pointed out unhelpfully. "And you, Lady Catelyn, are you looking for Ser Arthur as well?"

"I am merely keeping Lady Ashara company."

"Come now, I am disappointed. Let me tell you, Your Grace, Lady Catelyn finds herself much without entertainment since Her Grace, the Queen found it necessary to take our Lady Lyanna away. I fear that if you have come to find her, it is not among us you must search."

"My lady, what gives you the impression I am ignorant as to her current location?" There might be things he did not know, however, by and large, he was aware of what went on in his own home. "Your brother is hiding somewhere near the training grounds if I am not missing my guess. Allow me." He offered each an arm. Apparently a good choice.

Catelyn Tully fell into step with him while the other seemed to struggle with the measured steps. Definitely Dayne's sister. If anyone ever had any doubts as to their kinship on account of their rather divergent appearances, then their personalities were sure to correct for it. "Are you in a hurry, my lady?" he questioned.

"Your Grace, there are some times in life when patience is not what is needed." Her grin somewhat explained the words. Rhaegar questioned her no further.

"I will take your word for it." If only she might strain herself a bit and not try ripping his arm off. Alas, life was at times averse. "Tell, Lady Catelyn, how are you enjoying King's Landing?"

"I must confess I am thrilled to be here; might be more so than my poor husband. Not a day goes by that he does not sigh after Winterfell. I suppose it is natural for him." A soft smile curled her lips.

"You may take the Northerner out of the North yet you may not take the North out of the Northerner, I suppose." An amused sound came from his conversation partner. "I confess I am not ignorant of his impatience. Alas, I am as bound as he."

"We can only hope for the best." Did she know his father had yet to sign the necessary papers? Might be not. She would certainly be a lot more worried. To her credit, however, she did not seem prone to exaggeration.

Their journey came to an end with Ashara catching sight of her brother and breaking away from them to latch onto him. Lady Catelyn found much amusement in their rapport, so much so that she could not help but comment upon it. "'Tis so warming to see a brother and sister get along so well."

Lady Ashara was tugging on her brother's arm. Rhaegar winced. He could relate to his friend's pain. "I believe you've two younger siblings, yes?" She nodded. "Close in age?"

"Fairly close. Although Edmure being the youngest oft finds cause for complaint. For all that, I would not change him for the world."

"A noble sentiment." He'd wondered what changes would have been wrought had any of his siblings survived. Viserys was a child, yet unable to aid with anything, though through no fault of his own. If anything, it often felt more like he was a son rather than a brother. Not entirely unwelcome, but certainly not helpful.

"Noble indeed. Poor Ser Dayne looks as though he could use a hand." Arthur's face indicated that he would gladly draw his sword out if he were facing anyone other than his sister. He still might. "Are they arguing?" The note of disbelief mingled with humour.

"Doubtful." The squabble between siblings went on. A great beauty, Lady Ashara. Rhaegar could not help but be glad she'd never set her heart on him. "I've a request to make, my lady." He turned his head towards her. She was not facing him.

She slanted him an uncertain stare. Southron ladies; not quite as open as the Northerner counterparts. Although, it might well be the openness was lack of polish. A most becoming characteristic. Nevertheless, she did not refuse him. "Of course, Your Grace."

The Dayne siblings were yet engaged in what could only be termed as unrelenting banter. He sometimes wondered what a serious conversation would look like between the two. If nothing else, it would prove a shock. Ashara slapped her brother's arm to which Arthur gave a bark of laughter and said something low enough that he could not catch it. Whatever it was, Ashara heard it well enough that her entire face exploded in a violent crimsons. One of these days he would say something which even his attention-seeking sister would take true issue with.

For the time being, he got away with a missed kick, jumping back just in time. His sister was stopped from further violence by the arrival of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. To think Hightower would have her respect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her hair was unbound. Rhaegar considered the wisps she wrapped around her finger as she listened somewhat patiently. A small furrowing of her brow gave away the fact that she was not entirely captivated by the tale his lady mother told so very well. He was not listening either. In truth it was a story he'd heard more than once. For himself, he could sit before the fire, observing his betrothed for the next few hours and be completely content with that.

She released the prisoner wisps in favour of wrapping those same fingers about her cup. Watered wine or hippocras? He could not tell whatever rested on the bottom of the small container, not even by the sheen of red dusting her lips.

"It is certainly a good thing then that such we speak of wars in terms of history rather than present," his soon-to-be wife noted, her tone a subdued version of a more lively variant easily found in the company of her siblings. She put down her cup, nails scraping against the carved side lightly as though she could not quite convince herself to give up its possession.

"Do you find the notion of war troubling?" Whatever her answer, Rhaegar promised himself it would have no bearing upon his opinion of her. His decision came upon the heels of a frown his mother directed his way.

His bride-to-be tapped the rim of her cup decidedly slow. "Doesn't every woman, Your Grace? And doesn't every man? War is an unavoidable reality. Yet I do not think it merits a rise to the sublime or either a damnation to the circle of unimportance. It does depend, I suppose, on which end one is situated."

"You surprise me, my lady. I should have thought you more aligned to your brother's vision." By the look upon her face he supposed her to be knowledgeable of what he spoke. Her lips moved in a wordless chant. He waited.

She breathed in deeply. "My brother is not unlike many other knights I've known."

"Let us not speak of such grim matters," his mother intervened, her voice indicating she was not at all pleased with the direction the conversation was heading.

"I do not think the lady minds," he answered, searching Lyanna's face for a reaction.

"If that is what Your Grace wishes to speak of, certainly, we shall speak of war." She smiled, her lips stretching ever so lightly. Shifting in her seat, she disturbed the fall of her skirts, unveiling the rounded tip of a doeskin slipper. The daintily sewn flowers, shockingly pale against the dark background, held his attention for a brief moment before the cloth fell over them yet again, the cover back in place.

"Rhaegar, truly. Do you not have anything else to entertain the poor girl with?" So much like his lady mother to raise another protest. He turned to her with a small smile He'd won. Lyanna would insist upon continuing the conversation.

"You need not change the subject on my account. I'll own that I've not my brother's tactical knowledge, but I daresay I am a competent conversationalist." She took another sip of her drink. "So, Your Grace, what should we concentrate on?"

"There is always the ever entertaining Conqueror."

"Is Your Grace about to tell me whatever happened to that crown of his? One can only live so long with the unanswered question." She picked at her skirts, the fold trembling in time with the plucking. "I've heard it was masterfully crafted." As though catching herself mid-act, she stilled her movements and folded her hands in her lap.

"My poor lady, whatever do you think happens to such artefacts." He reached out and unclenched her hands; she went along with his silent direction.

"Well, I've been told that two cooks cannot stir the same pot." A pertinent answer. Rhaegar gave a slight nod towards his kin. Thankfully, his lady mother seemed to know that was more or less her cue to excuse herself, which she did without wasting much time. Her pretext never quite reached him beyond the very general notion that she would be gone for a moment or two and they were abide by the very many rules governing their current relationship.

The door opened, allowing the sound from the antechamber within. Rhaegar glanced through the gap. He saw one of his mother's companions as she rose in greeting. "And we should all be thankful for that, I feel. It cannot do much good to pull the horse two ways."

"Still, it would be nice to know."

"If only one could. Alas, I am bound to disappoint. The crown is well and truly lost. Whether my esteemed ancestor destroyed it or hid it in some corner never to be seen again, I cannot say. Although, if you'll permit my saying, with or without the crown, the impact remains much the same." A confused expression crossed her features. Unwilling to explain himself, Rhaegar simply settled for distracting her attention. Standing, he offered his hand. "Come along; we've satisfied custom long enough, by my reckoning."

Confused to an even higher degree, his betrothed took the proffered limb, the hold somewhat more intimate with their fingers curling. "Your Grace, what are you about?" He simply guided her towards a gap between a couple of tapestries, moving her hand along the stone.

"Do you trust me?" An impertinent question by all accounts. He certainly found no reason to trust her. The unease drained from her nevertheless and he heard the answer as the entry to the secret passage was revealed.

With just a moment's hesitation, she took a step forth. He followed. Darkness descended, eliciting a gasp from Lyanna. "Your Grace?"

He moved past her, still holding her hand. "Follow me. It will not take very long before our ruse is discovered and I should rather have some distance between us and them." Something like agreement came from her direction.

"But where are we going?" A concern that merited some attention. Fortunately, he did not entre battles he could not win.

"That, my lady is a surprise." He paused, causing her to bump into him. "There are some steep stairs ahead." She tensed slightly but her pace did not suffer overmuch. For himself, he knew the paths well enough that the lack of light did not bother him. Their descent continued until he felt a heartening flatness beneath his feet. "The worst is over."

"Praise the gods." Her hold on his hand tightened. The danger was more or less past, given no more stairs lay in wait. Nonetheless, he did not insist upon having his hand let go of. "A torch would have been most welcome. And some assurance that we shan't be spending too much time in these parts."

"If 'tis an assurance you want, then an assurance you'll have. We are almost at the end of our road." As far as the hidden corridors were concerned at any rate. While he could not entirely blame the poor girl for not taking the tunnels into her heart, he certainly felt she would see their use upon further consideration.

Before long, the narrow, cramped space ended upon a high wall. "Here we are then. Should you like to open this door as well?"

"I suppose learning cannot hurt." She moved nearer, allowing him to take hold of her hand. Her fingers wide apart, he led her hand to the allotted space. In time, of course, she would come to know the hidden nooks and crannies, which would serve very well indeed. "There is a small dip here."

"So there is."

Light assaulted his sight. Dust dotted the patches of glow. A soft breeze inundated the constricted space. Lyanna stepped out without fear, naturally more at ease in an abandoned hallway, in spite of the fact one might argue she'd have been safer in the darkness. "Where are we?" She looked about, might be trying to place some telling detail or another. Unfortunately for her, the Red Keep could, despite its more modest size prove as intricate as the grander keeps of the realm, not to mention some areas would be barred to her for good reason.

"The White Sword Tower," Rhaegar clarified. "This is the undercroft." He gestured towards the neatly stacked weaponry and the less diligently arranged ones. "Some of these have not seen the light of days in many a year."

Lyanna neared a greatsword, grabbing the handle. "That much I could tell. It seems some of these have not seen great use recently. 'Tis blunt." Despite the words, she still struggled to lift it. The pommel, which he could make out fairly well even in the diffuse light which did not quite reach the end of the large chamber, did not bring to mind any great knight. "Might be they are for practice."

"Unlikely. It must have belonged to a long-gone knight." The weight must have started to weigh down upon her for she rested it back against the wall. There was something almost clumsy about the way she handled the object, although to be fair 'twas more in the vein of a squire not yet used to the rigours of their position. That proved very little though.

"Should it not be returned to the man's family still?" Her attention went to the pommel. "There must be some records kept about these men that we can search through." The distracted way in which she spoke signalled her interest waned.

"It might well be it belonged to a Darklyn." He followed her example and tested the sword. "The craftsmanship is excellent." It did not explain the lack of any distinctive symbols adorning the pommel.

And he was no closer to the truth. "My lady, let us move on."

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from the King James version of the Bible, of course. Short chapter, I'm afraid. Time is somewhat lacking.


	11. VERY IMPORTANT

Hi everyone,

Sol here. So, I’m sure you’ve heard about the new link-tax and copyright reform the EU is looking to introduce into the member states of the union. To those of you who haven’t or are not from the EU, basically this new piece of legislation is looking into regulating all activities dependent on content (be it videos, songs, news articles, books etc). They would do that by monitoring what the users of a platform post and if copyrighted content is determined to be used, it would be considered criminal activity.

The only way it wouldn’t be deemed criminal activity is if the users paid a tax (hence why we call it a link-tax).

The vote will be held on the 20th of June and in case the law gets passed, I think it’s obvious I won’t be able to post anymore on any platform (be it this or FF.net or some other site). So what happens is this:  I am starting to archive all of my fics. Those of you who want to request a certain fic can find me [here](https://discord.gg/FZ3ep6r).

Further updates information is: [here](https://discord.gg/FZ3ep6r).

Questions are welcome, but for discretion’s sake, sensitive ones are better posted on discord, or if you must on my e-mail address.

Thank you for your time and sorry to bring you somewhat unpleasant news.

P.S. Every story with more than 20 subs will get a post like this. If you’ve read one, you’ve read them all. I’ll take them down after the 20th.


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